Emo, baby; I’m the stud-belt skinny jeans and always hungry for a gray-sky Monday. In terms of pain, I’m pristine. I’m hungry for you, baby, sweetheart, lover, black eye makeup red-ringed eyes red-ringed wrists and a black wire like an umbilical cord trailing down to my pocket. Black and white stripes, turmoil first, then light, and I’ll kiss myself goodbye before I say goodnight. My heartstrings? Screaming, singng, jusmping up and down on the bed begging for somebody to want me, love me, notice me, need me. A bottle of dye stuffed under the bed and a plastic orange one to write love on her arms. In the meantime, I will be the boy roaming the sky with his hands stuffed in his jacket, singing a song by kids in jeans like mine, coal-mucked lashes falling on soda-cold cheeks.