You are my excuse.
My excuse to breathe.
To weave my lies.
To lie awake, breathing into the pillow with straining difficulty.
To rip down exotic posters and shatter gilded mirrors.
To burn myself on the edge of irons.
To dance on long narrow royal dinner tables.
To rip the roses out of stranger's gardens.
To scream out loud in synagogues.
To raze carved front porches.
To carry pictures of dead musicians in my back pocket.
To own a nameless cat that doesn't belong to me or I to it.
To go to Pak Mail and buy six stamps I don't need.
To eat breakfast at midnight.
To stand on the roof, jump, into the flowerbed.
To take the rungs off of every ladder.
To burn plastic in the driveway.
To destroy dreams.
To excuse the inexcusable.