it doesn’t mean much

There’s a pretty girl on 32nd street who thinks it’s funny I keep getting lost and ending up somewhere near exactly where she is. There’s a fragment of a skeleton in my closet shaped like her clavicle, jutting out just enough to be inconvenient when I try to slam the door on my past mistakes. There’s a girl who pronounces vowels the wrong way and rushes through words like she’s trying to catch a train whereas my mouth holds them on display for a while, makes sure the light catches on their consonants. There’s a sword of Damocles that she likes to shove me under like it’s mistletoe. There’s a bluebird in my heart that knows what I did, what I’m going to do again, what I’ll always hate myself for.