She sorts laundry beneath the nauseous fan,
Draped in an unevenly cut dress of flowers,
In her lovers black racing socks,
“Do you remember when we first moved in and we thought it was cold here all the time?”
She asks, “And we were like, I don’t wanna pay for this SHIT!”
I tell her I remember with a smile,
and keep my head focused.
I still haven’t changed out of my towel,
This water-slide of hair traces my back
And I feel the drops cascading.
She says to the radio
Shakes her head.
But I almost like that song.
Like the stomach flu
And second hand smoke
And various forms of rebirth.
“But don’t you ever wonder why we’re here?”
“To smell the flowers and feel the sunshine.”
“But who says it is?”
“Who says it’s not? So why does it matter if you are?”
“But, what’s the reason?”
“I just gave you the reason and you didn’t like it.”
“Well I guess so.”
“The problem is feeling we NEED to do all of these things in life, as if to fulfill some kind of purpose to tell us why we’re here. The reality is to do the things you WANT to do in life while you’re here because they’re what you want to do while you’re here.”
“I like that, actually a lot better. My thought process is rather quite more dreadful.”
“Yeah I mean, and pretty anxiety provoking.”
The world’s a lot nicer when you’re not mad at it.
I hold the arrow circle but nothing happens.
I can’t bare to write “I” anymore.
Is it because I feel like I’m doing all the talking?
Is it because I don’t let anyone else do the talking?
Is it because I’ve blocked everyone else out so that I’m alone with myself all of the time?
I’ve lost all empathy for everyone but myself, and even myself.
I’m bored with life.
Fantasies of escapism fill the walls up to the ceiling-
Anything but this, anything but here.
He is hurt and I don’t care.
His head’s in a book; he’s really not there.
I’m way more proud, more excited, more dedicated than he is…
How’d that happen? How do I get out?
It’s too late to just get out and I know it…
So I just go on feeling easily hurt and unloved-
Picking out reasons it won’t work.
All I have to talk about is myself and I’m sick of it.
Sick of me. Sick of all of it. How do I get away from myself?
Is there really only one way out?
Dare I ever take it?
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