1ne, the crossed fingers and shaking hands of liars in the rain,
Looking up at your night window with wistful darkness in my eyes.
2wo, secrets falling through pocket holes and denim jeans,
Into wrong hands like elvis's suspicious minds and lips shaped like accusations.
3hree, your brain bleeding angry heart thoughts,
Sharp and terrible in their long-awaited estimations.
4our, 2 am panics and shakes and sweaty dial tones,
Pleading like plaid for school day wear-a-lots.
5ive, the leaving-i-love-you-don't-forget-me-goodbye-heaven-bound,
which will come, unbreathed and unmentioned for fear of its inevitable song.
"Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind, in the commonplaces of the asylum where the cracked mirror or my own selfish death outstared me . . . I tapped my own head; it was glass, an inverted bowl. It's a small thing to rage inside your own bowl. At first it was private. Then it was more than myself." -Anne Sexton
