||[Feb. 14th, 2010|01:04 pm]
My coat rack fell over two days ago, and the raw oats I spilled last night are soaking into the carpet. I've worn these panties twice without washing, and there are fifteen empty granola bars and coffee cups from eight different vendors next to unopened Maxwell on what used to be my desk.|
I spent the evening staring at my doorknob eating the chocolates you gave my roommate, waiting for you two to make love and knowing that you wouldn't. I was waiting more intently for you to say goodnight, everything is okay. Or better, say that everything isn't okay, but we'll change that when we fuck.
Well, at least you're not sick and I'm not high. At least I don't cry every time I look at you, yet. At least I actually loved you for a minute there, at least for that minute I didn't need emo prose to keep lying, "I'm alive." Contrived, copied pain beats that hole in my legs, beats emptiness and its sicker substitutions.