An assortment of change: sixteen pennies, five dimes, two nickels, and a quarter. More in jars and various vital areas around the apartment
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This is what my boss admonished to the girl we set on fire after she started yelping the other day. This is life in the kitchen of a high class restaurant. It's fun. And it's potentially flammable. Don't worry. Nobody gets hurt. Usually. It's an act of endearment, really.
Burn quietly. It's what I do all day long. All night long. I burn. And I'm not supposed to show it. Too much time has gone on since we ended for me to still simper and moan about what I had. Even after realizing that what I had wasn't so much what I thought it was.
Too much time has passed since the last time I used the word "love" and meant it the way it demands to be used.
Too many moments, too many girls, too many drinks, and too many words have come and gone in this stretch of my life for me to still feel this attraction, this wonderment, this feeling of loss, which makes every new day begin with mourning and every closing nightfall seem like a waste.
And even when I share my body with someone new, I have very little else to give them. But I need the taste of their flesh on my lips in order to satisfie my appetites if only for a few hours. Still, there's a hunger for that particular taste, her taste, that eludes me. The feeling of completeness, of being sated, of being in love is so so gone.
I miss her. But I'm supposed to be okay, copasetic, normal, dating, drinking, being a raucous display of young vigor with a reckless sense of abandon. I'm supposed to keep that face on. I'm supposed to be invincible.
But I'm not. And you can only play Superman for so long before you get tested and someone finds out you're an imposter, just a pale whisp of your former self. I'm waiting for someone to care enough about me to test what I've got. It's not much.
The mask is ever-present. While the face underneath peels away, flakes off, from the heat that lies inside. It torches everything of meaning inside me. And it won't go out. But I'm supposed to be okay now.
"Burn quietly!"
This is what my boss admonished to the girl we set on fire after she started yelping the other day. This is life in the kitchen of a high class restaurant. It's fun. And it's potentially flammable. Don't worry. Nobody gets hurt. Usually. It's an act of endearment, really.
Burn quietly. It's what I do all day long. All night long. I burn. And I'm not supposed to show it. Too much time has gone on since we ended for me to still simper and moan about what I had. Even after realizing that what I had wasn't so much what I thought it was.
Too much time has passed since the last time I used the word "love" and meant it the way it demands to be used.
Too many moments, too many girls, too many drinks, and too many words have come and gone in this stretch of my life for me to still feel this attraction, this wonderment, this feeling of loss, which makes every new day begin with mourning and every closing nightfall seem like a waste.
And even when I share my body with someone new, I have very little else to give them. But I need the taste of their flesh on my lips in order to satisfie my appetites if only for a few hours. Still, there's a hunger for that particular taste, her taste, that eludes me. The feeling of completeness, of being sated, of being in love is so so gone.
I miss her. But I'm supposed to be okay, copasetic, normal, dating, drinking, being a raucous display of young vigor with a reckless sense of abandon. I'm supposed to keep that face on. I'm supposed to be invincible.
But I'm not. And you can only play Superman for so long before you get tested and someone finds out you're an imposter, just a pale whisp of your former self. I'm waiting for someone to care enough about me to test what I've got. It's not much.
The mask is ever-present. While the face underneath peels away, flakes off, from the heat that lies inside. It torches everything of meaning inside me. And it won't go out. But I'm supposed to be okay now.
I burn very quietly.
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