I wanted to say something about the follies,
about their whimsical persuasions,
about how at night,
I dreamt that I could dance through my infinite sadness,
But after all those reveries,
I did not have anything to say,
I just wanted to move my feet into oblivion,
and I wanted you to see the open wounds on my feet,
the blood on my ankles,
because then maybe you would believe it mattered to me as much as the drink,
I was not drinking the bathtub gin the way he was,
and I was staying up nights and writing to clean up this mess,
his mess,
And later,
down the line,
they would say they should have sent me to the looney bin,
and then they did,
send me there,
Up in that room like Emily,
stuck,
useful for nothing save the words of my voyeurism and its carousel movements,
It was them who took me off my feet for good,
scalding the skin right off of me,
reminding me that I was nothing without him,
even though I knew,
deep in those roaring twenties of mine,
deep in the debauchery,
I kept the steady level head and took it all straight to the grave
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