I am angry that I have never woken up
And not known how I got there,
That I have never disappeared in the dead of night
And stayed missing for days on end.
I am angry that I have a heart
Prone only to aches and emptiness
And not that savage flaming core
That leaves you dead by thirty.
I catch the wind, but it becomes a breeze
When I try to ride its stallions.
I wrestle the sea but always end
Facedown in a tiny puddle.
When I come to I appear unphased
With my green, dullard’s eyes.
I live between one nothing and the next.
In photos my wings appear as fat, flabby arms.