Sex.

I try to pretend that I am the things hanging on my walls.
The postcards and the pictures and the drawings and the painting of birds without eyes.
Really though, I am the tequila bottles hidden under the bed, the perfume on my pulse points, too much caffeine in my  blood and hip-hop songs.  I laugh too loud.
My back hurts from the cold and I love pop music.  I don't dance naked as much as I should.
I am fluorescent lighting cat-eyes - daytime hustler looking at the boys in their button down shirts and trying to see through to their chest bones. 
It's all about the money and the after-hours beer spots.  Sports on TV, always something.
Fit in, fit in, fit in.  How well would he fit into me?