I’m always tired. I’m always at least half asleep. Blemish and state how I don’t feel great now. I don’t hang out in her hair. I don’t wonder if she cares. I lay awake now, I entertain my plans To one day miraculously be talkative and likable, To wake up as someone else, someone I know is inside of me, Just waiting to be put to use by something much more sharp than us. They pry out every fucking piece and still they’re coming around again.