in praise of mouthy women

i did try, briefly
to quieten myself
for you,
give you a touch of stability
on my constantly shifting ground.
"your" chapter
is the end of the piece,
no matter how i look at it -
that kind of fierce desire died
in the small piece of sunlight
i gave it
hoping it might grow,
in your looming shade.
so now i brush
the dried twigs with my fingertips
and palm the leaves and crumple
them into powder.
the wanting
retracted
until all i need
is my breath steaming in the air
on the streets,
good shoes for rambling
because my mind will not sleep,
enough alcohol
to make me smile - my needs
have simplified,
back to the days before you
when all i wanted was a pack
of cloves and enough coffee
to drown my slumber in,
since i don't like
the way it snatches,
a razor hidden in my wallet
for comfort rather than need,
for bleeding is a conscious act
of mutilation now,
not an excuse for escape,
but a little self-hatred
peering through the walls of the room
i lock it into,
music on my headphones
so i can rock myself
to apathetic staring
when i am the only one
in the room