Maybe to your surprise,
I do not live from the oxygen I breathe.

I live from the pheromones
that slip up from your dirty clothes on my floor.
I live from the pheromones of the stranger standing
just too close on the bus.

I live from the pheromones
that radiate from all humans
that I feel around me.

The only senses I need are my sixth
and smell to keep surviving.

And the words, “I’ll let you…” are the only that
I’ll ever really hear,
whether that makes you sad or not
matters,
but I’ll need to know soon…

I’ve got to move on…
and maybe it is dangerous to try to survive off of these pheromones,
but who can stop me?
And I can’t stop myself…
I’ve tried for a couple years.

If you want to kill me
tear out my tongue,
and don’t steal my breath,
but take my ability to breathe in the
scents that make me up into the
heavy body that I inhabit.

I don’t like to cry, because then
the only thing I can smell is the salt of my own tears
through the leakage of weak beats between sobs.
A bad song, is what it is.