sometimes i think i’d be easier,
if i drifted away so slowly
that i don’t make a shift or screech.
just a click of a door, the floor board
creeking into the night, creeping,
like my writing at dawn stirring,
soft, wistful, and depressing.
i can leave, don’t worry about it -
i know i exist so violently, i like to.
people think i'm off-putting -
they want me to eat my words,
but i just keep typing more and more,
im hungry to disrupt and find peace after.
Emily says i know better,
but i only know a few things, like
i’m annoying and loud, opinions
bustle out of me in vexing prose -
i want to be a good listener,
but i’m selfish. i want to be likeable,
but i’m stuck in muds of misery.
losing the best parts of me
to insecurity and the instagram bots
that like his posts before i do.
how can i compete with algorithms and
softer blondes, waves that glide so gently -
i am a car crash, the intersection preacher,
the storm before the calm, but the calm too.
i want to disappear, i want to be gone,
but there’s always something left to say.