Are the oranges/are not the oranges. Like a chakra, not a ship.
There aren't any more boring days, no smooth grey days. All of them loom and peak and trough. I am beginning to be afraid that this is how it has to be all the goddamn time. Let me begin again.
Most of the time, I find myself at one end of a hard conversation. Troubles and drama-not mine, but borrowed for a minute. And it is what I've gotten good at.
Sometimes, though, like today...there's no one else. Nobody's problems, no confessions or fears or tears or interventions of various proportions. There's just me and mine, alone at the end of the day.
These are the moments when I'd drag myself out of bed, storm out to my stoop. Smoke like the angst was bees in my lungs, and try and measure out what self-destruction I have left in discrete, hot little clocks. I miss the winter, cigarettes and the cold blue moon. And my stoop, and my self destruction. I miss not knowing, and I miss waxing. Like the moon isn't.
There aren't any more boring days, no smooth grey days. All of them loom and peak and trough. I am beginning to be afraid that this is how it has to be all the goddamn time. Let me begin again.
Most of the time, I find myself at one end of a hard conversation. Troubles and drama-not mine, but borrowed for a minute. And it is what I've gotten good at.
Sometimes, though, like today...there's no one else. Nobody's problems, no confessions or fears or tears or interventions of various proportions. There's just me and mine, alone at the end of the day.
These are the moments when I'd drag myself out of bed, storm out to my stoop. Smoke like the angst was bees in my lungs, and try and measure out what self-destruction I have left in discrete, hot little clocks. I miss the winter, cigarettes and the cold blue moon. And my stoop, and my self destruction. I miss not knowing, and I miss waxing. Like the moon isn't.
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