how we can feel so fine. so understood. when we immerse ourselves in the literature of the divided. of the misunderstood. the exile. but when we attempt to stop. to break out of those pages. those words spoken by the prophets of our time. or lost times. how we fall again into the desperate places we know all too well. that we have known for our centuries of being alive. of being. just. who. we. know. we are. i am just this. one woman. not even of knowledge that begs any kind of forgiveness. of what the poetess of my life's blood calls her spies. those counterparts going the good long haul with your words bouncing around in their skulls. without them. on my own. on paper. i am just one simple woman. begging again not to be left out. let down. played out in ways she already knows will happen when you've let yourself at such an age map out the world in masters' lyrics. i only want to have a normal life. i ring. into the kitchen of this life that i live into the ears of the only world i ever want to know. but even then, i guess, i won't probably be happy. i confess, waiting to be, hoping to be, proven wrong. but probably goes as it does. like fine whiskey among good friends. the burning glow of the things that might make you feel asphalt-angry and in-loss. my voice wants to scream the thing about dying young and grabbing fast. but my head says. we all die in that house fire. alone. left to the memories like spite. i don't even know how to bear my bones, anymore. how to make the words pour like daydreams into any cupped ear. even the poison dulls. i am only here. in this not so present place. a house filled with bones and dirty sheets. wanting to be both and yet not ever the same.