New books arrived today and I still have nothing to look forward to.
Their spines uncorrupted by the cross superiority of a human's hands.
Their bodies un-aired, pages in an eternal kiss.
Let them stay that way. And let me sleep.
*****
In my sleep, haunt the weighted ghosts of those who live with me.
The creak of furniture and the click of doors - sound from vibrations
Vibrations that fade away - the only evidence of material companionship gone.
*****
Otherwise, we are see-through blobs of film, plastic and self-disdain.
Each one knows why the other hates the rest
Each one knows why the other hates themselves
The dark silence is rotting, time is damning us for our insolence
*****
There are no hopes, immediate or a month away.
Happiness lies in front of me, I stop myself from claiming it.
I am a candle burning with no flame, the fuel is my guilt
*****
And I am dying, so bury me premature like I was once born
I am tired of reading the muddled, revolting words of others
I have no time to write my own, they remain in me till I burst
And I died, so bury me but burn my brain first.
YOU ARE READING
At Eighteen
No FicciónThis is me coming to terms with being an adult. This is me trying.
