grey

what did you say that made me drift away? i offered myself to you in a house that smelled like burning beans, stale rice, cold dressing flung on the countertops.  i slid my finger across the table writing i’m broken in spilled flour but you didn’t even flinch. it’s too cold to go back, a series of distant memories remain within reach but i’m not as broken as i was that time, and you’re pretending to climb up trees that have been gone for years. i’m constantly pouring wine where it doesn’t belong, closing my eyes and breathing in deep slumbering redness. i’m soaked with the life that exists in my head, and i’m sure i sleep with a confused smile on my face. waves of light are constantly regulating the mediocrity i have grown to define; i am anything but average, i tell myself. the sun speaks to me, knows what i want and feel, knows when i need it, needs to know, wants to know, knows i feel, and occasionally spits on my head. this city lacks the potential to eat me alive; it’s okay; i’m dead already in this broth of familar fury.