Somewhere, you have a home.
Somewhere, someone will miss you.
Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere-
Well I'm sick of it!

I'll never have a home,
And I don't want people waiting for me!

I want people to accept my actions.
I want people to leave me be...
I want them to continue on like normal when I'm gone.

Or maybe that's just because it's all I've ever known.

I dont like confrontation.
In fact I will do almost anything to avoid it if I can
Thats probably what makes me a good manager-- because I'm able to diffuse a situation before it becomes one
That's also probably why I let the trash pile up on the patio for weeks until we recieved an eviction notice
Because I'm scared of confrontation

I'm scared to tell you it hurts me that I've done the dishes the last 3 times because you wont put in a maintenance request to fix the dishwasher but I can't because you want to be here when someone comes.
I'm scared to tell you I hate that I'm the only one who takes out the trash because you ***** and gag if you touch a trash bag
Well I'm gagging too, but it has to be done because we're adults.
I'm always so happy when I come home and find the trash to be gone only to open the pantry and find the bags there. Only to open the balcony door and find the trash there.
Now that I think about it, you always complain that you'll throw up if you do it and I think that's a form of gaslighting.
I'm scared to tell you that instead of buying supplies to make cobbler when we had no food in the house, you should have bought basic materials to eat or god forbid a plunger because your toilets been clogged for 3 weeks and you have to use mine.

I'm scared to tell you I hate your rabbit and the fact that it chewed up 4 of my phone chargers, my echo plug, my laptop cord, vaccum, and is now tearing up my carpet. Oh also the fact that it's YOUR rabbit and I had to buy you hay when you were running low, but you could buy another fish tank we dont have room for.

I'm scared to tell you these habits of yours are bothering me because you're no longer lucid and I think you're slightly addicted---but everytime your boyfriend brings that up you complain.

I'm scared of confrontation. So tonight I made 4 trips to the dumpster at 2am filling my car up with garbage bag after garbage bag because I was embarrassed of how much trash we had and I didn't want the neighbors to hear or see.

I told you I was doing it at that time expecting your help, but instead you told our guest you'd waited all day for me to do it and took a trazodone and fell asleep.

Tomorrow I can already tell I'll have to wear my braces and use my cane.

Tomorrow I'll wake with baggy eyes from a sleepless night of anger of frustration of worry of tears from the fear that comes with the confrontation of the text I sent you asking you to please take out the last of the 3 trash bags by the door.

I'm waiting for the excuses.

I've been going through
a long dry spell, an arid
wasteland of the mind.
Writer's block is hell.
It's an empty nest,
a dead baby bird in
the wet grass--ant eaten eyes.
It smells like plastic flowers on
a tombstone.
I'm lost and starving in
the Whiteness.
Why can't I write?
Have I drank my mind
into mush?
The poems don't come like
they used to; the click is gone.
Sometimes, there were
four or five a night.
They swam from the
rivers of my soul.
They were my food and my light,
and my wings.
A good poem is like
smacking the ball out of
the park, or like coming together after
hours of foreplay.
Writer's block is a
limp ****, a miscarriage, an empty gun.
It's like having a stomach ache,
and not being able to *****.

Everywhere I go, I am
surrounded by convicts, and a
maze of walls.
My mind and spirit are
not in prison though.
They fly over the razor wire like
the falcon I saw through the
bars on the window.
It pierced the clouds like a bullet.
I will make the next
poem a feast.
Blood and feathers will
fall from my chin.
Ambrosia will course through
my veins, and I will
sing and soar from
the depths of my cage.

I am done with this game you play; alas, we can't all have our way.
I'm more than a toy you choose to enjoy at your leisure--
Do you think this brings me pleasure?
In a moment's time, you are both mine and not, never were, or will ever be!
Do you like fooling me?
You bait and tease and fill me with unease,
But you have a love to appease you--I do not.
I never have, and may never know that ease of heart.
Do you even care that it tears me apart?
Am I wrong to feel this way?
Yes, and no, I suppose.
I respected your wish, and gave friendly hands,
But compliance can't even meet your demands.
A friend comes with no expectation; and yet, a friend knows when the game is done.
You can't offer me heaven only to drag me through hell.
Oh well, I sigh, and blow a kiss.
You confess to know this--
This halfhearted bliss!
But the game goes because you know I won't win.
Go back to your comforts and leave me to rot within.

If it be that all the world is a stage and we are but players?
If its okay with the producer and director... can I just help paint the set!?
Someone else can have my role in the show.

I cannot quite articulate
the inescapable frustration
that you are to me.
i adore you.
𝘐 𝘈𝘋𝘖𝘙𝘌 𝘠𝘖𝘜!
i adore you-
BUT 𝙄 𝘼𝙈 𝙏𝙊𝙊 𝙈𝙐𝘾𝙃 𝙁𝙊𝙍 𝙔𝙊𝙐!
AND I SUPPOSE LATER ON
i will cry
my stupid
eyes out.