No one has been careful with me.
Not even me.
I can talk for ten hours and realize that I’ve said nothing.
That everything is an excuse,
and you’re just listening
and counting paint until I shut up.
I am five feet 2 inches tall but I am also absolutely insignificant in the key of A,—
There is darkness in the sun.
Strobe kisses inside my eyes catch me by the throat.
Where do I regurgitate back this dearest darkness?
Where do you go when all I see is light?
When all I taste are blues and greens?
Where do I grow and trample?
Where does all the growth go when I feel subterranean?
How do I fall in love with my twisted grove?
How do I happy my way out of insomnia?
Where is my conveyor belt?
I feel movement in my belly, a world of unfed mouths.
Why am I starving—for attention, for love and adoration?
For empty disappointments and misunderstandings?
When do I sleep?
When do I forgive?