and you stand there screaming but i can't hear what you're trying to say

there are very small things and they hide just underneath my cuticles. they get to scratching sometimes and that's when the biting begins. the kicking the screaming the fistfulls of hair that fly around this room like animals trying to escape something that lives inside of them and no matter how many times they run against the wall they can't get it out can't get it out get it out. i think that this room may be made of glass (just like the side panels of your skull- that's why it crushes so easily under my feet) and i'm so scared of running through the walls- thinking it's an open door like those birds that get caught in train stations and airports and you can't help but wonder how the fuck they got there and how the fuck will they leave? But this isn't a story about exiting- oh no-and it isn't a story of imprisonment. it is a story of how tall things get when you water them too much and how depending on how you say "success" people will always think you're saying "suck" and they wait for something dirty until you finish the word and then they'll get disappointed because they'd really have preferred to hear something that ended wet...pavement has taught me this just now (thanks stephen malkmus). i always forget that i'm the kind of person who waits for the phone to ring until i find myself there again- balancing on my toes counting imaginary measurements of time to justify my actions. "Ok, at the count of three i'm just going to say 'fuck it' and call him...one........twoo............twwooo and a haalf...................what the fuck, it doesn't even matter anyway." Anything can get as small as you want...if you just close your eyes tight enough.