I’m sitting in a library reading poems and thinking maybe I should write something but I’m wondering if I should see a doctor because I think my heart has gone missing, even words about you feel so cold. I feel like there are stars inside me and that sounds very romantic but what they don’t tell you in poems is that they burn so fucking hot against my icy ribs and fractured skin. There’s no room for you in my head but it doesn’t seem right to throw you on to the street like a broken television set. It’s time to go but my head is so full of static it’s leaking out of my eyes and even though you’re beautiful everything looks like rain to me. My hair is in knots and it’s a good thing that’s en vogue because I was a shitty girl scout and my hair is the least of my worries when my stomach is double knotted and there are chords around my neck. I’m sorry I’m a ragdoll, I’m sorry for forgetting the wrong things, I’m sorry I make a better poem than a person.