i scribble notes on flimsy looseleaf paper. write my final at 11, before i’ve even had my coffee. which, you know, is a bad idea objectively.
the tips of my fingers shake like leaves in the wind. i rub my eyes; try to comprehend the rest of my life in a split second. and it takes one more to realize… i’m not even scared.
just tired, and kinda sad. and why does it feel like the oxygen is being sucked from the room? why do i tiptoe at the edge of a black hole, this close to being consumed? but it’s sick, the way i’ve found… a kind of thrill in it, too.
until it falls apart, right before my eyes. until i’m not even a grain of sand, and i think i’m going to die; surrounded by my own mediocrity. by my spelling mistakes, and my plot holes, and my 10 different google accounts. by the carbon dioxide thrum of your feet against the ground. dollar bills and tired eyes; can i just go home now?
the air is cold, and damp somehow. i fidget with my sweater, stare blankly at the mirror. splash some water on my face; and focus on the soothing chill. i’ll do it later, i swear–i’m just waiting for my miracle pill.
so i’ll go walking, and listen to the distant birdsong; the frost-kissed grass crunching against my shoes. the house is so quiet these days, and i guess i… miss you.