She was confusion in abundance
and it almost always weighed her down,
when you’re heavy and you’re slow,
you forget to look around.

You think that you’re the only one human
and everyone else is made of stone,
you think your heart’s the only one beating,
that you’re the only one flesh and bone.

In her constant pursuit of meaning
she forgot some simple things,
she forgot to look for depth in men,
so convinced they were all just flings.

When you ask her what she lives for
she’ll tell you, “Nothing much,”
it’s really sad to see that

she’s become her own biggest crutch.

There are no angels
where you are, my dear,
only you and your hollow chest.

When will you finally
grow tired of the birds that
come and go as they please?

They don’t love you like you love them.

Things that grow wings
are destined to outgrow you,
things that fly are destined to leave.

You can’t rely on clipped wings forever.

I can still see the claw marks
from when they swooped in
just to crawl their way
back out of you.

Have you forgotten what that felt like?

You’re hoping for a change
but change doesn’t come to you, my dear,

it comes from within.

I’ve never met a man I couldn’t
write a hundred words out for,
I’m almost running out of
them – not men – the words,
I need them more.

The words to me are bread and bone,
they feed me more than you,
they tell me that I’m made
of glass – I break – but you
do too.

But none of that is the point to this,
the point is I’m running dry,
the words I need are no longer
there – they’re there – but I think
they’ve died.

I think the words subsist on fear,
they speak to me in hiding,
but for now, I’ve run out of places
to hide – to run – so I guess I’ll
stop writing.