Besedila: Kevin Devine. You're Trailing Yourself.

the sputtering blink of the streetlamp
makes you taller, then shrinks you, then splits you in half,
so you're trailing yourself on your walk to the payphone-
your pockets weighted down with quarters and the hope that no-one's home.
you spraypaint cinnamon on vines and key the cars you pass by.
your ears burn and your voice don't sound right.

so you spend the next week playing weakened,
rolling three men alone in the dark of your kitchen.
your apartment can't talk so it's safe for your secrets,
all the stories you've invested with a massochist, menacing meaning,
those tired tricks that you play to graph the life to your name
and you know it's not yours but for now it's okay.

you wake and cut your initals in cheap glass
to mark a space for yourself when your time here has passed
when you're drifted and done(,) trading danger for distance.
all those rocks that rope your neck are finally nameless and weightless and faceless
and you strip the sting from the stains that bleed the life from your face.
your cheeks will burn red on a pure perfect day