Self pity?

I’ve lost track of how many days I wake up this way. Before I take my first conscious breath, I already have words on my tongue that I cannot say because you’re somewhere doing whatever it is you’re doing. Whatever it is I do, there’s always a petty string of spite that attaches itself.

I’m bored.

I want to text you, sit down with you, tell you about my stupid day, I want you to listen the way you do, validate my eyes with your eyes, go back to yours, lay down in the sticky sun and fall asleep. I want to wake up when it’s dark and put on a show, stay up and talk, thoughtlessly, effortlessly. I want to complain, and then I want to laugh, I want you to squeeze my face in frustration; easy, rolling and playing with each other’s energy.

I’m bored.

I want to text you, sit down with you and scream at you.

I want to laugh bitterly, wildly, like I’ve gone crazy. I want to watch you dance with someone else and feel wonderfully bad for myself. I want to see you walking down the side of your own street with someone new, towards your home, but the home I made for me. The routine I dangled in every other day, the countertops that hold my fingerprints, the fucking pieces of my DNA and soul that accidentally fell on your carpet, my fucking earrings, I probably dropped one, your vacuum probably sucked it up.

I fantasize about angry conversations that will never happen.

I fantasize about walking away and walking away and walking away and walking away again and again and again and again, because I’m sinking with the words I don’t get to say.