And the sirens cry loudly. I’m reflexive. I cry loudly. You put my picture in framing. Hung forever, left me strangling. Called me baby. And with your nature reversed and our home as our cage, you caved and you asked “is this coming of age?” As you climbed out the window, your face cold as stone, you lifted the towel. Your wrist showed the bone. Held my breath in the ER, I swayed as I stood. I tried to stay steady and protect you the best that I could. And you pretended to sleep the entire ride home but I heard you crying when you felt alone.
I got some things to do, but I don’t wanna do ‘em. I got some things to say, and I won’t ever say ‘em to your face. I lost my lungs, I don’t really need ‘em. I lost my heart, I don’t really need it anymore. I’m in love with somebody, and guess what. It’s not you. You are in love with somebody. Yeah, you. You love yourself so well.
So I’m slipping into the stained glass of this muscle memory. With my lungs like an index, I’ll be wading through context clues. And things I should say like, “I wish I was brave enough to say this to you.” But the effort it would place on a lasting impression.
I felt me slipping back to all of my weird ways, avoiding coffee and parties and never taking subways. But there’s nothing to fear here; I am always okay. And there’s nothing to fear here, it’s the weight of my busy brain.