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  • Writer's pictureCynical Candor

What’s Wrong?

I got high with you before noon just to sit around and chat of what used to be and what is, what we’d hope would be. I drink color, I eat sound, I breathe perception, I hear chaos, I sleep feelings, shit nothing.

It hits different, locusts sounding summer’s close, when I’m not going back to school anymore but kids still do and I still could, yet can’t and won’t.

I’m broke, broken, but won’t cry anymore; I’ll just fix it, start with loving others, trying to show them, that I can love myself soon. Soon enough, I’ll show them.

But still crying alone, even in the happiness, as blue and red make purple, and purple tastes like rage and sadness and fear I used to know. Fear of the future I now can’t see; I didn‘t think I’d be here now. Boy, am I having a hard time getting my act together.

If you can’t count on anything, why bother with plans, soaked in vodka, remnants at bottoms of bottles? Make way for destruction and piece it all back together Monday through Friday, until about 8 p.m., and I take razors to the neatly-stacked piles all over again. I never thought I‘d be so predictably inconsistent, third-grade me “tsk, tsk,” tapping her impeccably sharpened No. 2 on neatly-kept composition book, judging.

Not everything is good enough to make the cut, but I wouldn’t know how can you tell what is. I know not nothing is, or rather, “nothing” isn’t good enough.

Moving slowly again. Finding, taking, making time, to wait. Listening to doors slam from behind windows I won’t dare peer out of, on the couch, safe inside, next to younger me, waiting.

I drink all the blues and reds, eat everything I ignore, breathe in what I want it to mean, listen to my youth, I lie and wait. Nothing comes out of me. I shit nothing.

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