I was burning for something that felt
like flying, so I settled for fake and
we went indoor skydiving.
I was driving with my eyes closed,
the way I play poker, praying
for lucky turns.
I was empty except dreams,
where I wrote endlessly for the
soon-to-be-dead-to-me and the
already-dead-to-me.
I was always putting words
in your mouth one way
or another.
I was so afraid of being
misunderstood, I used an
analogy for everything.
I was the prick
in your broken heart
measuring contest.
I’m not any of that now.