Bottle Dramas & 2-Act Plays

There is nothing  worthy to adore – I swore to myself as I tore my clothes off and then locked the door. It’s not quite anhedonic; it’s probably closer to ironic that when I get the things I get, I don’t even want them. I seem to be saving myself up to be a plaything, pretending to sleep so that every escaping girl will think she left with me unaware. But I still find their pictures and long strands of hair clinging onto the pillow or tacked on the wall. Nothing ever happens – there’s no one I want to call for after-hours hangouts or to bitch about my fall from grace and other high points where my long legs used to stand and there is no one to lament the dry and hard state of my hands which used to be as soft as diapers and as quick as striking tigers. No irises inspire me the way my gazelle-eyed girl did.

Lately I feel awful: always coughing, ever thoughtful of just how small my space is getting – conscious of those lovers letting people deeper than I’ve ever. What’s the use in being clever when no one gets the joke? Please no more smoke. My lungs are blackened catfish and my heart was carved from oak. This is the most alone that I have ever been. I miss my family and my lovers and who used to be my friends. There’s not enough sleep in the  world to make me feel okay again.

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~ by perfectionatrix on March 16, 2011.

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