we're just not amused, we're just used to bad news, we're just slaves to what we want.
Her whole life rests on the next half hour, her entire heart which belongs to so many people can't take one more true break. When did it become like this? She remembers being young, in love, willing to do anything, able to be anyone, and now that smoking is her only vice, her lungs will suffer for the next thirty minutes. She's lying flat on her back letting her hand rest on her stomach. Yes, it has become this pathetic. Sitting by the phone. In between drags she thinks about at what point in her life she became so needy, and so able to completely show affection. Something inside must have clicked, or did it snap? Did it break or come together? It's something that needs to be looked into, evaluated, but she doesn't have the time. The days blend together. She works, showers, and eats half asleep, and she sleeps half awake. Twenty minutes. The blinds need cleaning, her left hand is twitching, the index finger is involuntarily twitching to an annoying song replaying in her head. She won't move, will not. The minutes pass by like water, it's like they, the minutes, are liquid and they are moving, no, dripping inside her head, slowly dripping like a bathroom faucet, like a torture device. Someone right now is slicing for sandwiches, and she is waiting for a phone call. They're really the same thing, ambiguous situations, completely decided and derived from the unique mind of the deliverer. Outside someone is walking their dog, getting farther away from the sliced meat in their fridge, from the person whose arms they fell into, the person they settled for. She doesn't want to be them. She doesn't ever want sliced meat to have to get away from.
This is her, this is me.
Fifteen minutes.
The dog is pooping in her yard outside her window. The owner is yanking the chain, she can feel it on her neck, on her hand which stops twitching. Somewhere a person is slicing meat for sandwiches, but here she says fuck it in her head then whispers fuck it to the phone. This phone which represents all the ties she has with all the people she hates. Fuck it.
The clock says ten minutes but she's in the shower with the radio on, and for the first time in years she's a little more than half awake.
This is her, this is me.
Fifteen minutes.
The dog is pooping in her yard outside her window. The owner is yanking the chain, she can feel it on her neck, on her hand which stops twitching. Somewhere a person is slicing meat for sandwiches, but here she says fuck it in her head then whispers fuck it to the phone. This phone which represents all the ties she has with all the people she hates. Fuck it.
The clock says ten minutes but she's in the shower with the radio on, and for the first time in years she's a little more than half awake.