next time you say you can handle all of my crazy,
baby, make sure you have a vacuum

for all of the lazy, broken pieces of those same words said before,
that have been smashed and smeared into my **** carpet,
so you don’t cut your feet walking backwards out the front door.

next time you say you can handle all of my crazy,
maybe make sure you have a vacuum

because my hair sheds like it’s perpetually ridding me of thick coated winters,
and leaving behind a shrine to our time together like forget-me-nots
so you will find pieces of me everywhere -
not just in the carpet, the bed sheets, the backseats,
but on the radio:
if not because my voice is still etched into your mind during the static silence
then because i knew the words to every song like i wrote them all,
and i wrote a lot of them about you, or people like you:
the previous liars and triers and vacuums.

next time you say you can handle all of my crazy,
remember space is a vacuum

and how you also said we are two stars intertwined
because we are not celestial beings but soft bodies destined to die,
oxygen deprived, with ruptured lungs in ten seconds time.