there's these moments where I can't help but cringe.
the discomfort is really specific,
like the curdling noise of Styrofoam being meddled with.
i smile involuntarily, ironically.
i started speaking (really just whispering to myself)
with my hands like an angry girl who's about to fight.
because i am about to fight.
myself that is.
i have enough sense to scream at my
sisyphean dumb ***** self,
so why can't i use that same sense to squash her
before she does more damage?
hindsight only does so much when i end up
in the same lonely spot
sorry for being ****** but it was kinda therapeutic
i feel dormant, static.
sundays are reserved for anticipation and potential energy. they’re days of suspense and text messages sent with no reply.
a flower that hasn’t bloomed, a fetus in utero, or a criminal on death row, awaiting her execution. sunday is a a spectrum. possibly infertile.
a day of hope, wanting, calling, but still loathing, apprehension.
i can only speak for myself, and my imagined version of you.
how can i move?
there’s a girl in a room that i thought was mine, until i came in and saw her laying in my bed, in the same position, the same spot, i planned to lay in.
she’d have a blanket over her head, with the ends tucked under the back of her head and the back of her heels so she could lay face up without the sunrise intruding the darkness she yearned for.
i’d stare; in thirty seconds the posters on my walls would no longer exist, as if a camera had to a different shot in a film. i’d stare, and in thirty more seconds there’d be no more carpet. another thirty, and there would just be space, and loss of identity.
thirty more, and the girl had no blanket to shield her. her eyes were open, vacant: occupied.
i was starving.
her head lolled to the side, in my direction, but i would never be what occupied her eyes.
was it love? delusion? i could only read her to a certain extent. i was starving.
i just wanna feel like you wanna hear me.
Tomorrow I'd go to school to see you; I only had a mind for melancholy and romance, and no room for myself. This was me today, and perhaps tomorrow I'd switch for the organic, unplanned me or-
She'd switch for nobody, and she'd abandon the idea of "I", because she'd no longer understand what it meant to refer to herself, nor did she have enough thumbs to condense her being into that mysterious letter that everyone else seemed to use without conflict.
It disowned itself, ashamed of synthetic sense of self, its fabricated empathy.
Temporarily, until it wakes from its nightly slumber and tastes the sugar of the words, "Good morning". She'll find some spirit to fill her shell and deem herself human.
— The End —