When the air begins to nip once more and frost begins to beckon, 

When the leaves leave their nests and travel to the tepid soil

And you’re in need of that ability to be called someone’s, 

There are not so many choices left, 

As you, like the world, are dying, drying up, becoming brittle, 

And there’s nothing more to you than your outside, 

No warm heart, no deep interest, only lies. 

And that is when the desperate monster who within you sleeps, 

Awakens for mindless sports and obligatory company, 

When you must choose between the creeps, 

Or forevermore be lost and lonely. 

Better to take one who is ugly, stupid, foul of thought, 

As false in life as you, 

Than to be seen as unwanted. 

Better to submit to what is on tap than be left without. 

So you curl up with that brute, that liar, that heretic, that monied toddler, 

And pretend that it’s all you’ve ever wanted and you shout

“I have someone!” 

Knowing all you have is a kindling illusion built in ice, 

A farce of love crawling with maggots and lice.

For all you allow yourself is vermin.