Trigger

On the grass.
I talk to the girl from last year.
She had straight lines on her face.
She didn't care.
I lay here on the bed.
My heart about to choke.
I don't read your broken letters.
I don't know your words.
They've all run me dry.
I hide every image you write.
You think it's about you.
It's not.
You don't listen.
You don't read.
Broken wrist.
I could have been anyone.
To you
I am the streetcar, the busted track.
I'm taking a break, a hiatus.
Forced.
Because I want the trigger
I want the hunger back.