I feel sick and tired, the glass- cut hands

that make me tread fowards tell me:

I want to be loved by something.

-

Now I can’t tell you about the times

where I lost all my songbooks with the

nice little windchimes in them

cause I cant bring myself to

find them

-

I wanna break these cutglass hands 

and feel the beauty of your face.

Like Neruda in braille.

But these cutlass stands

where I keep my heart,

wont let me

-

Muddied thoughts and sleepsand

are what keep me from you

I tread through their strings

weaving my thoughts from strands

I will always be weaving

-

So break all of these, 

the swords, the glass

the bells , the demand

and tell me who you are

I never see on my own.