Aesthetic short stories

a vent thing?

take a shot everytime i mention honey

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The days felt like honey slowly falling off a spoon. Except it wasn’t sweet, nor golden colored. The honey wasn’t dripping onto something enjoyable, that would make whatever it fell onto so sweet and good. There was nothing, it was just gonna get everywhere and make everything sticky. Cover the floor and attract ants and it would be so messy to clean and  no one wants to clean spilled honey.

Or maybe the honey was just a dumb metaphor and it doesn’t make any sense. Nothing seems to make much sense anymore, why was that? It used to be so easy to have a good day, and not compare it to something like honey. Honey was sweet and went on most things, why am I comparing it to days?

I try to be sweet like honey sometimes, to be kind towards others, to talk to people. But it never happens because I'm too busy romanticising scenarios in my head that will never  occur.  Trying to be sweet as honey is nearly impossible. I'm bitter like grapefruit and tired as if I haven't slept enough, when all I try to do is sleep.

And talking to others? That never happens. I can’t fight the anxiety hard enough to just speak with someone on my own. I hear a group talk about something i like, i want to join in, but instead i listen from afar and never take that chance to make actual friends. I sit alone, letting my thoughts pile inside my head, as i  desperalty spill them onto paper to form words that will never be read nor spoken. I just want to release that tension and hope the feeling of whatever dread I feel goes away as fast as I can write it.

Maybe what I feel is like honey. Sweet, and slowly falling down, until it spills and it's sticky and messy, attracting unwanted ants unless it's cleaned up. Maybe i just need to clean the stupid puddle of honey on the counter.

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iM 14 aNd iM edgY-