there’s a wall between the blame and me. i’ve isolated myself to the point that it’s all i can see. this concrete boundary. splitting the breathing. between me and heavy shoulders, beating. existing.
but you see,
because i hate myself for waiting this long. and i hate the idea of italian summers. locks without keys. a shuffling of what’s already been. reeking havoc on the status quo when that trick has already
people are so stupid. believing you.
how the fuck can you balance your happiness on something someone has already built? where do you get the gall to measure yourself with the people who haven’t guilted you into forced sex or stabbed so much fear and meth into the heart of a supposed love that ten years later they’re ashamed of being or even having a voice? the damnedest dreams fogging up their nights. no reason why. just sick of the air. they’re buying up all the proper house plants. searching their skin for flesh-eating pests. harboring a tragedy. for a time to come. a proper one. knife at the neck. a slight suggestion of where to go when no one is there. a falling chair with a tightened rope. no hope.
how dare you smile. into a glorious sea. how fucking inappropriate to allow yourself to be.
i can’t even imagine what she’s in for. more of your father, i’m guessing.
“you piece of shit.”
you’re a disease.
and i can’t get well.
i feel better
how the fuck can someone who has a track record of hitting women be engaged?
i’m wasting time.