Another day, hot as spit, full of long, drawn-out
complexities not to be aroused. Talking
all night about feelings gives me an example of how numb it feels to reach out
towards somebody who pulls away, takes the wind out of my sails, and makes me
feel disgusting. So now, of course, I
don’t want to talk to anyone about anything.
When so much attention and focus has been directed towards the topic of
lying about feelings, making believe they’re
all good, or at least attempting to convey a good feeling, because it takes
a little bit of effort to feel good around you. Patience, persistence, and determination
slowly pulls me to pieces as I attempt to get in on a piece of the action. We’re all attached, just not at the hip, as shadows and light interplay, alterations’
skullduggery and the scene’s emotional mosquitoes
make it more and more difficult to coalesce, and makes you more and more loatheable.
Like a skinny girl who is getting way too drunk for her
cool-headed boyfriend who knows from experience that the responsibility will
eventually fall undesirably on his shoulders and that her parents will
inevitably blame him for eventualities that he wittingly tried to prevent, to no
avail, wise words wasted on honorless she, pain to her parents, a grinning
fucktard.
The pain is palpable, in the air, fifty shades of
coercion. What a reduced rush! A noxious exchange of gases <smolt>
spoken words like a shed of feathers plucked out for quills, anticipating the
end of Bic®.
Bickering.
Overhearing what you
have to say about our lack of chemistry, like chiral racemates debating
handedness of relative polarity cold extracted to combat systems of belief from
bombshelters, crucibles, or bucketseats.
Because I want to get to know you forever by asking how you
feel right now…
Tired, hungry, and pitiless.
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