My days are dishwashing.

Wishing to fall in love with

the next boy I see. Or the

girl lounging next to me. My

days are here and now.

Wrists resting on a blade,

not again. No, not those days.

These days, I sit: an addition

to the guest list, wasn’t

supposed to be here.

My days are dishwashing.

Or watching wristwatches.

Time passes faster than

it did last year. An addiction

would help me slow down.

I seek friction from failure,

not my friends. I’m the best

friend. The patient friend. A

bookend to their troubles.

My friction is with my self,

within my skull. Where I

want someone to

love me vaguely and

hold me strongly, then

wash the dishes so

I’m not lonely.


One thought on “Wishy-Washy

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