(no subject)
every morning i wake up, she's gone, and there's a note that says "I'm sorry, I can't do this anymore." Then I go to work and let people tell me I look like hell and I throw up some and by the time i'm out of there, ten thirty or so, chances are I'm riding in her car or she's walking to my house and then we're in my room, careful not to touch each other at first. We take some drugs and lie down and ask each other what we're thinking and both of us lie the entire time because I'm thinking that maybe I love her and she's feeling guilty about everything and thinks I don't realize it. First our legs touch or maybe our feet, and then maybe my hand is on her thigh, and then maybe she runs her hands through my hair and maybe I do the same. Her skin is soft. That's where the cycle ends and repeats itself, every time; my eyes drop out and as I lay sleeping she puts on her jacket and her scarf and slides out the door and every time she does this it's the last time we'll ever see each other.
sometimes it kills me and sometimes it doesn't. sometimes I wake up and throw my telephone across the room and watch it break into pieces when it hits the wall, and sometimes I just turn on the television and laugh about Full House. usually by the time I have to leave and face the public, though, something wells up beneath my face and twists it into some picture of dissatisfaction, so when I show up to my job I look like a walking hangover. Most of them tell me to smile, but the ones with a knack for unintentional irony always look at me with a sideways little grin and say "wow, you must have had a really good night last night." I haven't lost my sense of humor but I can't find the will to lie so I split into what I'm told is a "sad smile" and I say "no, not at all." I smoke cigarettes with my manager and he asks me if I'm ok every day because he has some idea what's going on. I don't tell him about her, really- I tell him about the other side of things, how Chris and Josh and Ren won't talk to me anymore and it's my own fault so I can't really complain. We go back inside and every time there's a billion things to get done and we separate and he forgets but I don't, I guess. I take my pills and I feel a little better even though the pharmacist says I have holes in my stomach. That might half explain the throwing up. I fall prey to stereotypes and I look at the photos people are making with their lovers wrapped in arms and hands I feel sad like I should because our life is not a movie or maybe. Sometimes pretty girls come to my desk and they linger while they wait for their shit and I talk to them, and sometimes I get The Feeling That Maybe if I tried I could see them again or something sometime outside of this building maybe over a cup of hot liquid or the some other pretense but it makes me feel sick to think about it. It shouldn't.
Then it's 10 and I'm spilling chemicals on myself for a while and then it's time to leave. I leave early every day and maybe that's why I'm poor. Door. Sidewalk. Cigarette. Train. Girl. Phone. Buzz. Home. Bed. Drugs. Couch. Sleep. Leave. Rinse and repeat. Today is her birthday and mine is in 6 days and I could really give a fuck.
sometimes it kills me and sometimes it doesn't. sometimes I wake up and throw my telephone across the room and watch it break into pieces when it hits the wall, and sometimes I just turn on the television and laugh about Full House. usually by the time I have to leave and face the public, though, something wells up beneath my face and twists it into some picture of dissatisfaction, so when I show up to my job I look like a walking hangover. Most of them tell me to smile, but the ones with a knack for unintentional irony always look at me with a sideways little grin and say "wow, you must have had a really good night last night." I haven't lost my sense of humor but I can't find the will to lie so I split into what I'm told is a "sad smile" and I say "no, not at all." I smoke cigarettes with my manager and he asks me if I'm ok every day because he has some idea what's going on. I don't tell him about her, really- I tell him about the other side of things, how Chris and Josh and Ren won't talk to me anymore and it's my own fault so I can't really complain. We go back inside and every time there's a billion things to get done and we separate and he forgets but I don't, I guess. I take my pills and I feel a little better even though the pharmacist says I have holes in my stomach. That might half explain the throwing up. I fall prey to stereotypes and I look at the photos people are making with their lovers wrapped in arms and hands I feel sad like I should because our life is not a movie or maybe. Sometimes pretty girls come to my desk and they linger while they wait for their shit and I talk to them, and sometimes I get The Feeling That Maybe if I tried I could see them again or something sometime outside of this building maybe over a cup of hot liquid or the some other pretense but it makes me feel sick to think about it. It shouldn't.
Then it's 10 and I'm spilling chemicals on myself for a while and then it's time to leave. I leave early every day and maybe that's why I'm poor. Door. Sidewalk. Cigarette. Train. Girl. Phone. Buzz. Home. Bed. Drugs. Couch. Sleep. Leave. Rinse and repeat. Today is her birthday and mine is in 6 days and I could really give a fuck.