an un-sheilded wire carries such friction into speakers. a loud buzz, or a fuzzy undertone. a sound that drowns my brain.
a list of things, like “do you think Meghan would miss me?”
quick and painless, long and slow. some thoughts consume the whole day.
they have no idea.
roulette style thoughts that pop into thin air. i don’t share them
not with anyone.
therefore they don’t exist in this reality, unless written, and hidden, or hiding among the painfully obvious in cryptic texts.
the hurt behind the eyes doesn’t mean a single thing, even though you can recognize it in others who are kindred, because you can easily send flowers, or tune it all out. trace the ip address…
another feeling of lulling back to sleep.
Frankie, where are we now? I’ve always known that you’ve known, even after you made the decision.
it’ll all be investigated, brought out into sunlight, because thats what we do as humans. expose the scandals, expedite on new, unimportant personal issues in personal lives, and make money the center of our smog filled universe. i cant see anything changing about it in my lifetime.
its not half empty, or half full. its more of a question of how much i drank, and if the glass really exists at all.
this will be reprinted for everyone to psycho analyze, and i am so glad i wont be here for it.