punkpixie
09/29/05, 03:51 PM
She writes a short note to let me know ‘I’m not wasting my breath on you’. I’m spreading love like the jam from her morning toast. She thinks I’m strange the way I only talk at parties, the way I sulk from room to room, treading on each creaky floorboard. Her father’s a chemist and her sister is an alchemist. Enough said. She bosses people round like she wrote the rule. Only one. I’m crippled and held, chains in her hair. Acid on her breath from her sister’s flair. When they say it won’t hurt I know it’s a lie. Taking chances is not how I work. I like to think about things first. Eyes boxing sleep hate the fighting. I hate the mind whirring. I’m too tired to go to bed, but I can’t shut up long enough to take my pills. I don’t want to draw it out so I show her my writing. It’s a piece of paper and it says: ‘trying to talk to you is like trying to turn lead into gold.’