I stare at the ceiling,
sleepless and starving, motionless inside
a wall of sound.

I am listening to my
elastic love songs.

I lock the door, strike a match, and yell,
"I am not coming out until
this candle is abstract art."

I look into mirrors
without wasting away to a daffodil.

I sit cross-legged on the floor
and put inspirational messages
on yellow sticky notes
and paper the entire room with them.

I mix up the letters "c" and "s"
in places where they are crucial.

When you walk in, I will make
no explanations for my appearance,
the state of my hair,
or the insanity of gaze.

I will say, "Yes, I walked through the rain
with no consideration for my clothing."

I will say, "Yes, I wrote love songs during class.
I wrote love songs on my arm during class.
I wrote love songs on the desks during class."

I will say, "Yes, I received
karmic retribution
through insomnia."

I will sing the Beatles,
just because I want to sing.

I will make friends with barbershop trios
and convince them to become a quartet,
just because I want harmony.

I will dance to the music of the street,
just because I want to move.

I will not catch people
when they fall for me.

I will not catch
your subtle hints.