You made me a beautiful painting, and then signed another’s name to it. The girl in the painting, her eyes are filled with salty water. She swims, and lives in dreams. You’re waiting for her rain in the sleepy desert you call purgatory. Meanwhile she’s drowning in her own purgatory. 

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.