I spend my days waiting for night to come,
And nights awake waiting for day.

It’s a hopeless conundrum,

Like waiting for a flight in permanent delay.

My bedroom has become a terminal

Where tungsten lights seep through tearstains,

Where happiness is a criminal

On the run from your grenade.

I’m waiting for your satisfaction

Your smirk of approval, your disdain,

And all I get is a kiss from your shotgun

Blown off, blind-sided once again.

What’s another day to me

One step closer to being depraved

Of meaning, of purpose, of distinction;

I’m just another patient face.

I’ll wait.