You shout statements at me. 

Sweet tea

reduces to vinegar and text check-ins; the place where you wax poetic about pride.

These sweeping generalizations

are your generation's 

hello. 

Find me nowhere. 

I prefer to wade in the hollow

of wishing you well,

so that I don't have to strip off pieces of my flesh to give to you. 

I am so used to laying myself bare that 

I can't see the viscera

born anew

amongst the scarring

of youth. 

The metal taste on my tongue when I read your solipsistic paragraphs

feels like home.