i live,

on nothing,

but my own vomit,

and a cardboard sign,

when i beg,

and plead,

for someone's food,

warmth,

out in the open,

with no home,

and i stay up,

thinking about you,

when i shouldn't

and wonder,

how you're doing,

and if you're okay,

or if you still love me,

and i hate myself,

because i still care.