The moon is smeared across my window,
Much like cosmetics on my face.
It’s so late, I’m so tired:
Unsure of how I’m even awake.

I smell awful: of smoke and beer.
My mind creeps toward exhaustion.
I’m so full of food and pain,
And something else I can’t quite place.

I feel that I’m an icicle;
Dirty, wrapped in black.
Left alone to melt away
Among grass and drunken friends.

I can’t help but feel irritated
And isolated by choice.
Perhaps a tad of abandonment,
Embarrassed by my best intentions.