How do I compete with you?

My head down; hair lacing a frosted door,

stumbling around a supermarket, pissed.

Bloodshot, angry, giggling all the same.

 

I need to feel again; sharp cinders in my lungs,

exasperate, fall back on the plastic floor,

pucker my lips to you in the florescence.

I need to explain.

 

But I digress; take my pasty limbs and words

to work, stare at a spider in a window frame,

become obsessed with it, and chew my pens,

until they burst on my chin.  Objectively -

 

I remain, and twirl gooey paints around the hairs

of pathos, flicking through magazines,

make romantic claims, fuck around, and

buy a projector; a million ways of being the same.

 

Collect, display -

 

It hits my teeth, reeling in and out,

twirling in the aisles. Cutting Edge...

Jesus Christ.

 

Don’t ever call me again.