We haven't spoken, to each other at least,
in a while, but I see your texts
to make sure the money goes toward food.
You've got the easy end of the bargain.

I'm reading the Brontes.
I'm going to church.
I'm sleeping eight hours.
I'm singing in the car.

My smoothie tastes too much like spinach.
I ran out of juice last week,
wasting it on vices you've long suffered.
Are you proud of me?

I'm skipping classes.
I'm lacking motivation.
I'm forgetting my Fridays.
I'm losing friends.

You are my biggest fear,
my wretched destiny,
the hole that my life slopes into.
"Thanks for groceries! Just made breakfast."