i. i’m a writer / which means / i spend most of my days getting lost in my brain / and contemplating my stupidity / playing therapist to the devil on my shoulder / but i’ve never been much good / so now we sit on the sidewalk after class / with bruises on our knees / eating ice cream and talking trash / just to make ourselves feel better / just to make it go away / and when we finally grow up, i hope we never speak of it again

ii. i’ve been told that i’m meticulous / carefully organizing the train wreck in my mind / into bins and categories / you see, i come by it honestly / been like this since seven thirty / weaving strands of stories together / with chaos in my wake / doing cartwheels over awkward mistakes / and inaccuracies / i’ve been taking myself apart just like this / a heap of used parts on the floor / grease on my fingers / looking for somebody to blame

iii. but at what point does it stop being self-analysis / and start to become me just making excuses / as i start to spin around in circles / down the lines of my palms / i’m so caught up in myself, one day, i think / i’m gonna be forty and realize / how all this life has passed me by / but i’m tangled up in spreadsheets and cold / hard / facts / never liked the feeling of sugar-sweet metaphor / on my tongue / too bright and too kind and too ripped at the seams / one more and i’ll throw up / ‘cause it’s pointless / all these hours, sitting in my room / i’m so careful / and tidy / always play within the lines, always do exactly / what i’m supposed to

iiii. and when i lie in bed i don’t need to fall asleep / to play through nightmares / let me tell you the very worst / where i am nineteen and tired / don’t know how to do this anymore / you’ve grown tired of waiting / i’ve grown  sick of cherry-picking / between my lines of verse / you’ll leave me / standing on the wire / if i don’t do it first