I only half do things,
Like washing a ***
With smears left at the sides.
So long as it doesn’t make me sick
Or take up space
In the kitchen or my mind,
Its good enough. Its clean enough.
I only write things
With a fraction of my heart
Sprinkled on a whole lot of obligation
Exasperated, reluctant movements
That scrape lethargically into words.
I love feeling the apathy fade
Into an apathy that’s deeper still
When I don’t care that I don’t care
And I can simply sit
And wonder, if one day I will.