When you’re made of smoke and windowless rooms,
there never seems to be space to breathe.
Girls like me wrap ourselves in abandonment
reckless enough to distract ourselves from our lack of depth.
The more detached, the more meaningless,
the more capable we are of faking.
I’ve gotten pretty good at faking.
Just make some one night mistakes
then spin them into metaphors,
Recycle the meaning of substance
and make poetry out of pills.
But eventually it gets tiring.
It’s tiring falling into people’s complacencies,
catching bullets with our hands and building walls on top of walls,
all the while bleeding for fragments of fulfillment.
Sometimes you try to prove a point
but you end up losing purpose.
Sometimes a poem can’t find an ending
until the writer finds a point to it all.