make a pact—to stop policing yourself—slap—the soft inside of your thigh—your smarted  skin sings you out of spiralling—into another personal brimstone litany—do not be afraid— 

—the date book will not give you more—than a paper cut—cup your ear and hear—how the  rooks are still singing in the chimney’s sooty breast—though you keep getting handed— 

—borders like fists full of dying flowers—when asking for softer evenings the superego  says—I don’t speak this language—and somebody—has to get the chimney cleaned— 

—everybody told you that you—were brilliant—self-sufficient—going to be a genius—now what—now—what—matters—you’re here to play—a song—to a sold-out room—still— 

don’t believe it—still—waiting—for the ball—penny—curtain—to come falling— and  someone in the crowd—to hold up—a painted sign that says—  —we’re all here because we hate you Zach