Scumbags.

4:41AM and I’ve written most of this garbage on a whim. Why not pretend?

How terribly ill it makes me when I think of you, of us, infectiously intertwined, the two. And how time has torn me apart, just waiting for you. Spewing out toxicity in malicious miles meeting the marker for something new and truly beautiful, for just a little while.

We anxiously repeat. All I see are white walls and cheap floor tile. Blue doors and crooked smiles. Old Christmas lights and poor style. Seventies-vintage paintings hanging awkwardly where we talked and you mistook my broken speech as something more or less sweet than apathy. I’m slinking through hallways strewn with bad designs and we fought, over goddamnit; and I’m far less strung-out this time. And you are killed by the curiosity as you wonder why. Well, “there you go.” Finding better reasoning for all we’d once opposed. Formerly exposed to all the things I’d love to forget. Why does this world remind me of you? Meanwhile I stopped giving a shit. Let alone these little, dim-lit rooms with silverware drawers all emptied of spoons. Somewhere near, I’m guessing, an air of strangeness looms. Forever struggling to first control and further consume. And girl, I just feel so used.

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