I click out of garish pop-up, eyes burnt from the white, and lick my lips.

Cheese. Grease. Onions. Oregano.

as I don't do the dishes and the beer bottles mount an army around my room,
holding their necks in an offended reaction to my distasteful behavior.

I sit here and try my darndest not to spend money because it seems
possession are the only thing that can fill my holes fully while I lie here empty

wishing I had something living in this room

and thinking about how I should take a poll
of how many boys I've been with that wear
old spice.

I am successful, on paper. But.

If attachment is suffering, then why does being desensitized feel so brittle and empty (?) .

Don't answer that question. I don't know how much of it is a lie.