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.