I.
Sorting through the rubble of the latest tornado, I think, I should really move out of Kansas. I always find myself this way, picking up the pieces, limbs that were scattered by the wind, my head rolling drunk on the bathroom floor. I sew myself back together, dilapidated, a mess, always more deformed than the last time. The mirror, as broken as I, still speaks the truth. "How is this working out for you?" it asks. I don't give it the satisfaction of an answer.
II.
I stay because the love comes cheap here. I stay because my name sounds sweet here, on the tongues of beggars and liars (they come out of the deep here). It's almost comical, the way I'm caught up in the volatile, the eye of the storm eluded me again.
III.
My demons look like angels in lighted windows, but the dust is honest dust. I'm the one that builds my house here. I'm the real fool.
