I sit here on my bed,
in my hot room,
with a 1.5 liter bottle of wine
beside me.
Im going to drink the rest,
in hopes of sleep,
and because the bottle is cold
against my legs.
Here I am.
In my natural habitat,
surrounded by uncomfortable
feelings and anger.
Charles Bukowski lays open
in front of me,
but I've already read it.
Besides I am supposed to be
asleep right now.
I won't even tell you how early
I have to be awake.
It just sounds pathetic.

I'm not depressed, just over it.
And I'm okay with that.