I've got a
bottle-blonde brain
and a bottle rocket temper,
screaming around in brilliant bursts of
I forgets.
Breast cancer
and heart disease
to beg for someone's
empathy.
But, baby,
I don't want your godforsaken sympathy.
My phone's lying like a brick,
draggin' all the attention of the room
to it's silent little numbers.
I've dialed for take out
at least a dozen times,
just to hear another human voice
beside the one that chatters
through my rattling brain.
My stomach's just as empty as
my eyes
(your heart).
Maybe if I swallow enough
cough medicine and caffeine
I can jitter enough
to get better.
I don't see me (and/or us) getting better any time soon.
