you've learnt the intricate art of tying nooses; one knot, two knots, maybe three for good measure. you like to ravage your kitchen's countertops with butcher knives, and i remember the way you laughed when i asked you if you liked the sound of the marble screeching under your catharsis.
you tell me about phobophobia, and how you fear the living who live. i'm not sure i understand, but i fill your brain with words i think will help. in the end, however, i too am a slave to poetry. you stop fearing the things that don't exist.
instead, you listen to u2, and sometimes, me too. slowly, you begin to weave your pain into words, and all i do is pretend you aren't there.
vogel im kafig, i have been told, means bird in a cage, and when you decide you're never going to leave yours, you waste away.
so when you end up as the headlines of the local newspaper the next day, i stop fearing the world.