I'm so sick. Talking about him, talking about you, telling my friends about us like your name is someone else's. If you're listening at this party, I hope you hear the times I hold back from cracking jokes with you. Or at least notice when my lines aren't landing because I catch your eye and my frame breaks.
Yo, I don't feel okay is that okay with you? I'll back off, *******, do what I have to do to make sure this sleepy Sunday goes swell for you. But your actions are like rug burns, not hurting for long--but still hurting
I? I twisted your arm? You're not mad about that! Are you? You are? Give me your skin so I can fold it! Feeling your wrinkles under my calloused hands, it won't hurt, I swear! A lesson for you is what I bear.
I let this happen for one hundred years until my pale flesh turned purple, and my eyes blackened into squares as I saw Nyarlathotep slip out of your three tongues. You begged for an apology I couldn't muster, and in turn chafed your own foolish forgiveness in place of mine.
Folded and torn, yet you still play with it. There’s not much left in the hazy hue you haven’t crumpled to death. Do you like the vibration of the grains under your fingertips? I’m sure the overlapping lines must get in the way of that sensation, but still you trace every ****** polygon as if you were the embodiment of the proverb “if it ain’t broke, why fix it?”
Throw me out. What use am I to you? I’m the origami rock you can’t bring yourself to toss with the moldy leftovers you never cared for--even before they were leftovers.
“Ain’t that just the way?” you say to an audience of a mirror, hoping a prophet will descend to correct you if you turn out to be wrong. You’re so stuck in your ways, folding your papers and crumpling each piece until it’s unrecognizable from its original state. For a progressive you’re quite a pessimist, but at least you still have paper to fold with its woody grain you trace with your thumbs.
I commit crimes against my body to test for happiness. A feeling that I'm not sure I know how to feel. Yet there's something I love about the way it feels to feel nothingness cling to my insides like pure, restless butterflies.