It’s half past twelve and some ticks,
neon blue lights on dark streets
flicker in storefronts and fizzle out;
the rain slows down to a drizzle now.

During the dive, the clouds confess
I reek of moonlit loneliness.
Is it a sin to feel nothing
except the raindrops on my skin?

Come nightfall, phosphorescent scars
illuminate my darkest hours,
like fireflies in mason jars
on secret nights with hidden stars.

My scars borrow light from the bulbs
of street lamps in shadowy curves.
When I grow up I want to be
a metropolitan city.