Motherfuckers

so don't come back for me

I'm listening to terrible music eating ginger candy in an effort to distract myself from the brass-wrapped strings splitting my heart in five. That's not even natural. Anxious about the possibility of a decrease in productivity from today to tomorrow, I sit here with the blaring overhead light making visible all my flaws and it disgusts me that I am alone in my apartment typing on a computer. That is disgusting to me. A computer. Typing. The sound it makes sickens me and I try to remember that just a few hours ago I was browsing the Chinese supermarket on Hester Street. But even then I had my Goddamn iPhone. This also makes me sick and my fucking contacts are dry from staring at screens but I can't wear my headphones with my glasses on because it hurts my temples and I can't wear my headphones connected to my iPhone.

Upon opening the front door, I smell the dish water sponge and stove gas and my eyes hurt. I plug in the Christmas lights and put down my phone. I take a notebook off the bookshelf and grab the pen off the white thing. I sit for hours thinking about one of the many things I shouldn't. My eyes burn and the notebook falls off the foot of the bed and the pen is lost in the sheets. I pick up my phone, sit on the couch, turn on the TV.

I WANT I WANT I WANT cannot have. But I don't really want anything. I have everything I need, I just need to reorganize and re-utilize the things I already have in a more correct fashion in order to be happier. I am un-glad at the moment. This is mainly due intense guilt. Lazy fucking guilt. That jacket looks so small hanging up but it fits so big. This is how this is how. That's what that looks like, but what it is is just not the same. In fact it is different and unsatisfying. Wrong, even. Wrong, mostly.

Pretty, smart, funny

My hands smell of blood, the blood I was born with