Out on a desolate road
that straight comes to my bed,
I grow gardens in my blanket.
There's an edge to my sanity
and it's sharp.
I bleed, bleed, bleed.
A branch hangs from my ceiling
and swinging forth are my dreams,
and of the dead flowers in my palms
do I swear : I miss them.
So I call a man every night into my room to breathe names over my skin
before I collapse into Not Knowing.
An expletive for an apology I trade with my younger self,
Treat me better, she says, and I only demand.
Here, laugh, my words have never been understood -I might as well dictate you on how to feel,
Because if I don't, somebody else will.
That's the delicate balance in this room, locked up a garden of fantasies,
so securely held insecurities burning.
But the balance does not exist.
This is all pathetic fallacy.
Do you know what I'm saying?
That on the floor is a rotten corpse
and I cannot forget her eyes ever.
Do you know what I'm saying?
The ceiling falls faster and faster every night,
and I don't care if I'm not breathing.
Do you know what I'm saying?
I'm saying somebody once upon an afternoon came and burnt my flowers, and locked me inside.
Do you know what I'm saying?
There's a fire on the curtains and the curtains cling to my body.
Do you know what I'm saying?
The door is locked and I can't get out.
Do you know what I'm saying?
I don't care.
I'm not getting out of this room.
