Tiny machinery fueled by coffee and ink scribbles down my arm trying to make something out of the weak humming that these days have settled between my teeth.
I think I used to make sense,
back when I would disappear into a whirlwind of someone else’s clothes, laces and leather.
I was Joan of arc and every song was about me,
with eyeliner tears and tears in the fabric of reality
I would peek through and write letters to the mad hatter who occupied the other rooms.
No one ever cried as much as I did, no one ever loved as deep as I did and then danced in someone else’s sun a week later.
I measured my life in fingertips, green eye shadows with spirals and heavy bass.
And I never minded being stroked through the hair as you would some endeared house pet that later would grow into a alley cat.
One night, we danced on the wet grass in the rain and I smoked stolen cigarettes, you told me you were unsure about everything and I lied and said I was sure about everything, you always smiled like you had a secret and now I know what it was.
Idealised because I don’t remember all the shit things that followed in between, and the heaving of broken hearts and disappointment hadn’t caught up to me yet.
I think I used to make sense.