i’ve lied on floors before,
unabashed and wailing
contemplating my death days
before the sun could even rise
and i’ve writhed in agony
in the arms of my looping carpet.
but never before have i hated each atom, each molecule of wretched air twisted in putrid and vile weaving ribbons like i do now,
lying on an acrylic floor
hating myself and hating everything.
i have never before despised the birdsong playing around me in a lovely melody so sickening it makes me wish the floor would melt around me and swallow me up.
finish what you’ve started. infect me with your decrepit dreams of isolation and damn those who dare to laugh at you as if it is we who are lucky when they can try it again next year,
and i was numb and i was broken and i am angry.
i am a conversation that lapses in time and fades between being there and being veiled and goddamnit i always feel the wrong things.
i wasn’t ready.
it didn’t care.