For Penelope with Small Breasts

I should write in the third person again
My first person's been trapped in this pen
Heartbreak leaves me uncertain
Walk with a stutter
Because my head's been hurting
My eyes burn with blue fire
Walking it off like a flat tire
Hanging myself from a live wire
Don't ask me why
I'm so fucking tired
Your hands are making fists
But the grasp just missed
You've got nothing to grip
If you look at my hand
You'll see I've made a list
Of empty drugstore warehouses
So it's back to psychiatrist couches
Our story always matches
I was the bad one
Steering straight into traffic
I used up my best words
You worshipped birds
My seconds are coming as thirds
The alphabet's exhausted
I'm just scribbling curse words
Thinking of you makes me absent-minded
So I'm begging you to help me find it
Put your weight behind it
I'll tell you the truth now
And then later deny it