Musings of a dumb bitch

Tapper

What's the point?
I tried didn't I?
Gave it a shot; many shots.
And nothing worked, nothing ever will.
I try but I don't fit, I'm an extra lumpy stitch that grabs at desperate clawfuls  of fabric, setting the whole pattern off.
Of course, you undo such a stitch.

School.
What a show that was...
It's fine, I'll dance along. Out of time is better than not at all.
But then what?
9-5 is it's own unattainable corporate nightmare.
A shop, a production line, everyday at the tills.
I'm not sad.
This is where I'm going and it's okay.
Easier ultimately.
The same motion with same product, infinite ubiquity.
I can look forward to mundanity.
Less cause for thought, more time for nothing.
I can't see myself with a "good" job.
The starched white collar profession.
Laminate posters tell you to reach for stars from the bottom of the canteen bin where someone threw it.
Maybe these are my stars.
I'm not aiming for much.
Live past 20 hopefully, a few hours ago I didn't think I could hold until tommorow.
I walked home knowing those were my final steps.
Some distant voice told me to appreciate the sodden, slimy leaves beneath my feet as I wouldn't see them again.
And I didn't.
Perhaps I could've, but I saw nothing worth appreciating.
On that crowded busride, I tried in vain to hide my tears and people saw but nobody looked.
Everyday is the same circus of screeches and laughter and those of us who sit crying in the corner, realising we never got to say goodbye.
And it's not that it matters, it doesn't matter at all.
I think people want me to care more but I have nothing left to care about.
I can't worry about school because I know where I am headed.
Where I've always been headed.
I can't worry about friends because I'm not sure that I have any.
I can't worry about my self because there's nothing worth worrying about.
Just the same perpetual cycle of numbness, tears, blood and lying to myself.
It won't get better as long as I breathe.
How could things improve when my existence is the stitch that ruins the pattern.
I can't improve things for myself and I'm not sure if I even want to anymore.
But my existence hurts others.
I hurt others.
I know this and yet I try to forget it because sometimes it's easier to believe that you are just bubbling flesh and broken skin.
To just once be the victim, and have someone hold you through your tears.
But it's only a fantasy.
Every mirage dissapears once the heat of the moment dies.
And then it's the same face, the same place, the same brute amused shout.
A truth that knocks me out.

It's me.
I'm the only problem.
I know what I must and will eventually do.
But I lay here, clutching onto clawfuls of fabric.
Waiting for someone else to pick me out.