i never get laid because of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head

my stomach is full of plane crashes, derailed subway cars, and fatal automobile accidents.

things that malfunctioned.

things that hit walls and buildings.

things that hit each other.

things that are now classified as missing.

things in black body bags.

things being digested in stomach acid.

broken things.

disasters.

pieces of painted shrapnel covered in smudges of grease, and exposed wires, still shooting sparks, are stuck in the gaps between cavities.

my teeth are black nubs, and my gums are swollen/bleeding.

i am trying to become a better person.

the passengers' funeral processions march up the vertebrae of my spine embedding sad songs in the swirls of the wooden planks that make up their pineboxes.
 
they are:
former best friends.
deceased family members, who were coal miners that died before i was born.
and girls who wanted to hold my hand, and kiss me, then forgot about me because i couldn't decipher the signals of their bodies, voices, and words.

i loved them all, even though their faces are unrecognizable, and pay homage to them with a moment of silence before they are lowered, and buried in the wrinkles of my brain.
  
i am trying to get a girlfriend by brushing my teeth, cutting my hair, wearing a tie, eating wintergreen breath mints, and dousing myself in cologne.

but i never get laid because of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.