What the fuck am I doing?
That is, where am I going?
Zoning out on my “love.”
Disinterested and shit.
Eyes close.
Mouth opens.
Puddle on my desk where my interest used to be.
Fingers crossed that I make it. Give me four years I’ll fake it.
This perpetual test: of the can and cannot.
Fuck passion.
That proves nothing. Cloak me in white; then I’ll be somebody.
Foregone are the weakness and love and friends. Then- deemed a distraction.
Negligible fraction of what was... is to come.
Young and beautiful.
That she was.
Now dead, commemorated by a statue of gold and status.
I think I hate it.
Absolutely.
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