Let me throw my fists to break them
shatter my bones, leave me in pieces/
rip out my heart strings/
use them for your own instruments/
All my thoughts are sentences
and i am tired of the poetry/
I cannot think with it playing in my head,
over and over like a scratched record/
My veins are dry,
and I have nothing left to fill them with/
when she asked me why I would write on the napkins