Carrie was a child who spun on the playground, arms outstretched grasping for the wind, eyes wide to the clouds, ignoring the dizziness. These days she removes her polyester suit and drops it crumpled onto her bedroom carpet each night. She lays awake beneath gritty sheets she always plans to wash tomorrow. Regretting the disorder and ruin that close in on her troubled 3 am mind. Someday she will not have to choose which bills to pay each month, spend more money on vodka than food, or allow valiant aspirations to waste away like an anorexic teenager. Once she danced on shining stages nationwide. She hung her shirts neatly on cedar hangers. Once she wrote poetry and cleared her weary mind. She thought it could always be so. Her broken, scattered words of frustration offer a perspective of banal reality. Mark her words and hold hands. Maybe the world will revolve around you both, maybe the world will end, maybe nothing will change. She forces herself to continue and something lies inky on the page. Maybe not what she intended, maybe no inspiration, but forced poetry creates truth unwittingly. Everything is so much more frighteningly poetic in the moonlight or by pen. Somehow key strokes capture nothing but words. But at least she's not writing on a napkin. She moves to douche her brain of yesterday's emotional excretion and every day's before. Rattles her pen across paper, scribbles her theoried therapy only to discover accidental truths, patterns. But she's there writing under the light of plasticized lampshades. You just can't take them too seriously: her poems. And she never really forgets you, the tickle in the back of her throat. When darkness falls on the moment of truth, she measures her judgment. Written as if all were aloof, she pushes you out of her mind with words. What she has written shears her free.