i miss the child i was at 17.
i miss 17, i miss missing, i miss loving nothing.
i miss wanting to feel and not being old enough to get it yet.
i miss thinking i was emotionally literate.
i am still a baby, a kid, a viriginal chalice not yet ready to be drunk from.
there is no slow down, you crazy child when it comes to me.
my onlookers wince as i choose to spend another night alone,
my predecessors laugh as i sip red wine with old gods while they discuss the deities nonsense.
the fourth monologue passes through my brain except i dont have anyone to fucking perform it for.
the boy thats talking to me isnt there.
he is but i dont think he'll ever fully be.
he wouldnt get the monologue.
i bet the boy i stock shelves with would,
he isnt carnally inclined, nor am i.
i love him in a very simple way.
but thats beside the point,
once upon a time i made my mattress sentient
its thread and worn spooked whoever pretended i was okay.
its thread and worn is gone now because it was thrown out.
i feel so nauseus when they ask me to give myself away.
i wont i will not i can not.
sure, i'll start taking them again.