going to the doctor because my mouth's flourescent green

(or:: a mathematical equation in two parts, where you+me=everything, but only if you get our coefficients right.)
It's our everyday experiment and you and I are the only constants, even when all you do is ch-ch-ch-change.
We're dancing to the beat of the same drummer as everyone else, but it's the closest to escaping when my heart's pounding in my ears.
[tell YOU tell ME tell HER, a complete percussion set of yes and no, of youlovemeyoulovemenotnotnot]
An identity crisis of high prices with high shine.
Couplets of wrist bindings and revenge.
I am a daydreamer of the highest order. (have I gotten sick recently, Doctor? No, of course not. Only worse.)

She shouts in perfect steady harmony, the bassline to my drums. We are the entire rhythm section of your old middle school's jazz band, her voice and my heart.
She makes me want to throw a mug of steaming-hot tea at the side of a brick building and savor the sound as it crashes.
She is a fiberglass splinter, the kind you get from taking out memories.She finds ways to cut like glass down my iron-coated throat.
She finds pills in strange places and she finds the time to down them all.She believes in time, but not in feelings.
She believes in me, but not herself.
She is the whorl of sickly color making its way across your cheekbone, just under your left eye.
She is the whirl of leaves across the pavement, late, late in fall.
She is stubborn and incohesive and nonsensical, and she will make herself work if it's the last thing she does, goddammit.
She is a car crash (hope I don't get whiplash) and a bouquet of flowers (hope I don't go into anaphylactic shock) and an asprin (hope I don't OD) and she is far too expensive for me.

I'm checking my ingredient list twice.
Let's see what I can do.