It’s always twisting and winding and unclear. I like interpreting, but it leaves a lot to the imagination – maybe things untrue within my head, and because it’s someone else’s name that’s etched on the stone – it brings tears to my eye that bleed, and stain the carpet. Because the carpet is where I’m stuck to the ground inside a stolen look within someone’s eye. And I know my poems probably suck, and I know I probably suck. But I can’t help but feel suffocated, but in some sense I like it, and in another sense I want to getaway – because I’m drowning not floating.