the panera chronicles.

in my english class, the study of confessional poets is full steam ahead. 
and my new assignment was yet another poem, so setting up camp at panera and writing with my regular french vanilla coffee and blueberry bagel made perfect sense. 

My skin is paper mache

Layers of newspaper 

are more malleable than clay:

even after the glue hardens. 

When we hold hands we combine

the articles of a 

preacher and a gay man.

Like us they stand side by side. 

I am Queen of the World,

I'm a whore on the street. 

With all these words glued onto

my bones, sleep is exhausting. 

There are times I feel you don't say all you mean

but I've never read you for a liar. 

The truth is written, right there, on your knee. 

I said, "I love you." You replied, "Two dead in fire."

listen to this song because it's great. the end.