It was like
                   you were like

making music with words
                                    that make me

feel again

                I have to practice
being happy.

                             I think.
                                         you think?

because at the end of the day

when my hair is one billionth
of an inch

                   lon
                         ger
than it was yesterday,

                      No one notices

       except you.

Maybe the finches were a
sign that I can't fly
anymore. Maybe you have
clipped my wings






****.

                         I told myself

that I wouldn't write about
you

                            today.

One
        dead yellow finch is enough

for me to interpret it
as a message
                        that my freedom
is dead.
               Hollow bones
   so easy to break
by larger things

                               And I just
all of a sudden
became very frightened of the
things around me

            Fluorescent lights humming-wheezing
Long Hallways With No Windows-
                                                        ­      anywhere



signs that lead me to
believe that there is
                no escape, if I
                              needed to.

If I can keep this going,

maybe you'll get why I

pull away when you kiss my

lips


                   It's because I

am crazy for you.



         Crazy

                          like yellow finches

    flying straight into glass pane doors


                    and the shock

                                                kills me

A Brick is tied
to my left ankle

And last night

and the night before
  
        and the day before

I have been hauled into a
deep           muddy river

and you
can't
save me

because
I've been drowning

    for too long.


My whole life.



                               See?

I should write,
                 I keep writing about
Men
                  In my life
and they tear me apart

I want to write about
my ****
                    and my feet

and my knuckles
                                because those

          are the things that matter;;

                                                                 today.
I should write.
                    I can't write
about anything that doesn't involve body
parts or some sort of
        soul connection

and, like gonorrhea becomes
resistant to antibiotics
                                        over time


you, are
slowly


becoming resistant to
                   my *******.

I love water the way you love music

My life revolves around it, I drink it
                                     in through my lovepores
You have a neverending
string of notes and tempos
                always slipping right through your fingers

I grew up in bathtubs, pools, rivers
             ponds, lakes
I dipped my toes into the places
I felt most at home.


Maybe you grew up on MTV and cassette
tapes in car rides
                      and piano.


I'm sinking
                            in this

and at least we both know what
it feels like to be obsessed