I had written this a little while ago; a week or two from now, after I had finally arrived at my current abode from a few days' and nights' previous 'merry-making'; making friends, eating dinners, playing cards and so on. I had slept in three beds across four nights and had felt a little more at ease in every one other than my own, singular, bed- not just for the respective company they provided, which was in itself a blessing, but because at every stage I felt I had divined a different sense of self to match.
Hadn't been 'home' in four nights and days;
ripped clothes and lost buttons along the way;
traipsing all around, working hard, busted toes
with broken nails pushed through the torn veil
of fabric socks, into cold, wet leather.
Bruised skin and aching muscles are the sum of my efforts,
along with friendships made and beds laid in.
Once I was a pessimist,
but I lost the time for narcissistic lucubration
striving to make others happy:
When one ceases to live just for themselves,
the whole world shines with wonder,
but it takes a thick skin to avoid the abrasions
that come from so often 'rubbing shoulders'
with another; shaking hands and sweaty beds;
I showered off the scent of sex,
pulled on my boots, then I was off
and out again.
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