At least I'm inspiring somebody,
quietly, gracelessly, breathlessly, located in a clumsy swipe at sleepsand. Neither of us acknowledges the other woman.
It's the underdog's story once again,
and all the chocolate is gone. I wait for the room to collapse
before discovering I have to tear it down by hand, until my brain is bloated and my fingers are pulp.
These ghosts we've been following are as lost as we are.
You said I dressed like a victim. It comforts me to know you haven't the heart to kill me.
If I touch you, will you break?