Skin Jockeys

In too many cigarettes it becomes clear. In thunderstorms it motions. Modelling. Gesturing toward dead witnesses. Still lost in a trial that pronounced it innocent. Like everyone is right up until someone decides to love them.

I don't wake up. Ever.

I sleep eyes wide open chewing on fishhooks that never reel me in. I tell myself I'm a clown so I can laugh while they do. At the smile drawn over my lips.

Sometimes it's only skin and I can say to myself I made a profit. But you can crack that egg only once.