It must've happened when no one was looking,
Eventually her body could no longer handle the party
Some nights she passes through New York bars
I tried to tell her a story about lovers who loved each other forever and ever and ever. She said that was the saddest fucking thing she'd ever heard, and then asked if I had cancer yet. These days she doesn't want to know if I've found myself in the metallic eyes of a dragonfly, or if I've decided we're all really just one mass of energy and light, pain and passion ricocheting off each other like electric popcorn, causing a sort of static that can only be described as beauty or Oh my God. She wants me to show her how many diseases are eating my heart, so she can weigh them, see if I’m up to par. She's taken to reality TV and snuff, says when watched simultaneously, they explain everything. I'm afraid she'll start making me eat pig scrotums or stick my hand in a dark box under her bed. Faith, she says, has always been the route of the unholy. She knows I’ll do it every time.
On "The Girl who became a Tom Waits Song":
On "We'll Probably Put Her Away Soon":
I see the "I" and the "she" in this poem as being of one mind—sort of the optimist and pessimist within us all. I think it also represents a certain fear—what will I become, and what the hell will they do with me?