the bus poem - the 13th; static

You know all of my stories.
Or, you don’t.
At least you know
the ones that count;
the fuzzy ones,
the ones that sounds like your dad’s CD player,
the old one in his car
that he used to drive me home in
sometimes,
like that time when I couldn’t get a taxi
and your parents wanted me to stay over,
but you said no.  
 The Music Cracked As We Drove Under Bridges
all the way home.  
You don’t know the people that I know.
And you don’t know
half of the things that I’ve done.
All of the people that I’ve done.
But you would know why,
because you know everything
about those little men in my head,
walking a tightrope between you
and everything else.
I bet you even know their names.
There’s some sort of safety in that.
Safety and sadness,
with a fistful of madness.
I’ve made an appointment to scream in the street
sometime next week
if I don’t hear from you.