The night and aching hands

Take care

of your beauty

and paint

your nails

bright red.

Aching hands

at night

and sudden


until you swallow

the pill.

And then think of characters

who stand in front

of mirrors until

they fall asleep.

And brush your

hair and stare

at your cheekbones

and wonder what

it is that sounds

so nice about insects

and wasp nests

and people who

speak in a low rapid


And find all the

photographs that

feel right, though

you weren’t there-

you’re barely here

trying to be there

and you sleep too much


and talk crazy

and try to hide it all.

Think of all the diners

and the T.V.’s and

people wearing wired glasses

and they don’t open their lips-

they all live in diners.

I want to live at the

drive-ins and let the

weeds and vines eat up

my car in the moonlight

and I’ll lay on the roof

and listen to the flat emotions

and how they make the

music to the stars.

All of this and all

the not knowing how

to really behave-

you’ll be alone and

you’ll feel everything

twice as much as the rest.

It won’t get easier.

It won’t get easier.

You’re running out of

pages here.

You’re running out of

pages here.

How will it end?

What will you do?

What will you do.



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