No single home
could contain all these 
makeshift fires.  Every
fence post a refugee.
I have yet to determine
what I can live with.
What I live without grows.
The match book cover
happiness; strike it
rich before closing. 
Funny how other people
know you don’t see
that much anymore. 
I write love letters
on my cuticles then
shove them into
my fingers.  When you
rip my nails out you’ll
finally know why I am here.

.