Why You Weren’t Around
My bed breathes ‘it’s time’, and I say fuck off I was awkward tonight and drank red wine on an empty stomach and now I’m bleak. Like the whole idea of frivolous youth was a scam. And I had the highest of expectation. My Wednesday night special was the rain on my face like bloodhound eyes. Your performance was poor, my feet toast each other, but your lips are full. Someone I know well breaks a wine glass and I am startled, snatches of conversations just hold hands with the one going on in my head: Why are you here, again?
You weren’t around when I really did need you. I feel bad about expecting you would be. It’s like you just don’t get it. My foolproof sanctuary was set alight, left with me grasping at your jacket sleeves, an inch from making contact. But I could never bring myself to do so. And I still feel bad.
I feel like a fool. When I once had incredible faith in my intelligence.
And so things continue. And I pick out all my eyelashes again, and exert myself too much and feel increasingly awful about the prospect of a meal with anyone. But I think that just being generally fucking nuts is better than being distraught over death. The pornography of trauma..
Ah. Fuck you too.