I know how you get down.
I know how you eat with your hands and sleep with your boots on and pinch your eyelids in the mornings when it’s all new light and no one else. I know you’ve got that postcard on the bathroom door still. I know you hate the whole world for what it did to you, and frankly, you have a point. You get to scream at your mother. You are allowed to punch your bed very hard.
I know your name, but I can’t say it fits you at all. I know you meant it and that you thought it would happen, but turns out, we were both crazy. I never heard your voice crackle through a telephone wire. I never saw you scratch an itch.
I know you lie wondering as the time ticks by beside you, wondering how things can go so fast when these minutes are heavy and so fucking endless. I know you hold your breath to feel yourself on the inside.
I see that every time you manage to laugh that your face and your eyes crave a good cry.
I just thought you should know that I know.