I don't hate my life,
but sometimes it feels pretty
worthless to say the least.
I'm 20, a pretty useless age.
Stuck between a teenager and
being able to drink.
I work about 45 hours a week,
pay my bills,
eat a lot of junk,
barely get enough sleep
and repeat.
I see my boyfriend for less than 24 hours
a week,
and I'm lucky to see anyone else.
Adults always tell me to enjoy this
time alone, because one day I'll
barely be able to find a minute.
But I don't think they meant this much.
Everyone needs a little conpany,
otherwise the walls start to speak.

7 a.m sleepy hands,
sliding up my leg.
Kisses almost hidden,
if not for early morning light
peaking through the shades.
It's a Saturday,
in bed with him.

I used Bukowski's back
as a makeshift table,
and packed one to smoke.
I hit it a couple times,
only setting it down to text him back.
It's a chilly Friday night.
It's the first time I've felt Fall
this year.
A cool steady breeze blows
in my bedroom window,
and he tells me
I love you.

Oh well hello there
old friend.
That familiar blank space,
asking to be filled with...
something.
It was time to start fresh again
anyways.
Writing as often as I do can
start to feel like being followed
down a dark alley with no exits.
The past becomes inescapable.
New job
New house
New people
New phone
New
New
New.
This time I vow to only write
when I catch that perfect breeze,
read a good poem,
kiss my boyfriend.
Keep it
R
  e
a
     llllll.