A Log of a Drama-Queen

Smoking in chains and rushing in love
and these poisonous circle-thoughts drowning me, though containing an echo of irony
I am Bono playing Coltrane
As Gabaldon, a cheap lust to Kafka
A typical egg-shell thinker in her untypicality
Bridget Jones, the no-one of the cherub-era, grabbing to her images as to a blanket, friction on skin
And truly, this is how I feel with him
Mac and cheese à la me, s'il vous plaît
My wide-open eyes begging, as I am losing by heart
Not knowing how to love, nor how to not fall in love
Be hiding from him, or to carry him with skill as a Woman should in his dimension
nor can I laugh at that thought, as a Woman should in mine
In each order of mine, a promise of trouble
and yet, I want nothing else, than to hear from him