WHEN I DRINK LEMONADE: If I could call you, I’d tell you we’re still friends.
INNER THOUGHT: I don’t think he wants me as he watches me through the window dancing; as he watches rain dance on me, tempted to be there: by the way, I will never be there.
HE SHOUTS: Will you come in from the weather outside? The leaves are drunk on absinthe again! You can follow me up the ladder and I will reel your hair in.
TRYING ON MY NIGHTGOWN: Draped in silhouettes, I am; made from fibers taken from the Holy Day of Martyrs. On that day, you can see Jesus walking in the parades: and I’d really want to, by the way, I’d really want to see Jesus there.
FINALLY: My whole room lifted with the Sun as it took downers through the night, helped him come up, helped him sink down in beds of cards—court cards, beds of Ace of Wands. Maybe if you pulled The Lovers it’d be better. Maybe it’d be better.
FLYING KITES ON A BEACH: Will we come back from feeling so drifty? Touring on a blade and I’m dropping the knife, right now, on your back.
LOOK AT ME IN MY SKIRT: You don’t even notice when we’re on trips: your eyes are always closed, and you’re always staying in (again). Tired of senses feeling so senseless, can’t you be more wary of where you are walking?
REALLY?: You walk into my room, when and where I am naked, and I am getting climbed over by rats—they won’t stop!
TRUST ME: I will break your heart again. I really want to. I’d eat it for breakfast, I’d take you for lunch, and I’d steal you for supper. Don’t you question me, I know how I am writing. Don’t feed me lemons, I am aware and sure of how I am writing.
LET ME: I thought I had bronchitis, once, when he told me to go away: I cursed at him. He said he was disappointed. Maybe it’d be better that way.
BACK IN THE DAY (I HATE WHEN IT’S A BIRTHDAY): Never whole or complete: always fragments! Unholy realization whilst only seeing reflections, and never the source—if my eyes are exclusive so is my heart, if my eyes are exclusive so is my light.