I’m feeling sick like a rollercoaster disease: when your stomach’s knotted and your eyes are wide and your head spins as a spinning top does.
I wanted a window, my window, so I can crawl through it and sit on the outside sill and look up at the diamonds that I wish I could take out of the sky and weave in my wheat locks so they could be wavy and pretty for once.
I want the sill so I can sit and cry about The Squid, my Squid, who I’m sure will run away soon so he can find the girl-woman who will get him out of the backwater suburban gutters sooner than me.
I want to think about The Balloon, who is no longer my oxygen supply but I still know in my heart I need…what he was, anyway, not the torn satin and soot that he became.
I need him on nights like tonight, when I looked around and knew my feeling-secrets were no longer important to anyone but the pages of a blank diary like a fifth dimension on steroids that I can’t put up with, much less control.

The tears came when a message machine started its memorized lecture and the phone was hung up and Motion City Soundtrack’s “I’m On Fire” spilled out my mouth and the heart and the brain both decided A Life Not Lived Is One Less Thing For The World To Worry About as I went on singing like a trooper I thought I was.
So smiley faces were put on text messages that wanted to be phone calls, books were read like a fat child eats cotton candy on the Fourth of July, and the feeling started to pass, but still nothing was cured.
Why can’t life be like the fairy tale books we read? Like The Princess Bride?
The feeling right now is manta rays flying high in the sky and eagles gliding through the depths underneath, and we humans still stuck in between, unchanged and immovable.