script writer

my words are always like kites.
i steer them across a purple-bruise ceiling
in search for what i am supposed to say. 
an ex once told me i am not even a script writer.
that everything i say was handed to me
by a little man beneath my desk.
this is not true. the script is written
by angels which are even less trustworthy 
than a strange man. when she told me that
we were on a beach or maybe we weren't.
maybe it was a busy city street & maybe 
it was easy to stop talking. i am also always
trying to talk. trying to person. trying to
keep the clouds from laughing at me.
i can be a little self-centered. i blame
the script. i blame the angels. the autism.
the onion grass my brother & i ate as children. 
our hunger that surfaces in the middle 
of the night. the scripts are sometimes sensational.
i am not a good actor. i am supposed to be
a man who lives along the gooseneck 
of a farmville road. sometimes i consider
becoming my own script writer. bought 
a typewriter & started smoking in the house. 
i don't know if that's even what writers are
supposed to look like. often i feel grateful
for the scripts. i will be reading it & feel my body
pulling away from my mouth until 
i am the kite looking down on the body.
once i found one of my ex's scripts. she had
left it in the bathtub & so the words were
warped & stuck to the side of the tub. 
i followed a line. all it said was, "please." i had
seen that line too. knew how hard it was
to be so close & so far from what you want. 
i wanted to keep her pages but i stopped myself.
i mashed them up & ate them. they tasted
like turnip & butter. not as bad i thought they'd taste. 
on my best days i get to confess. i bent down.
scriptless, i talked to the bees haunting
a swathe of new flowers.