Dirty Old Paper
Divorce is bloody thing. I never thought I could leave everyday behind–but there you are, and I can’t seem to keep it on the ground.
The careful dust my clothes acquired isn’t there anymore. All my darned t-shirts paint a bleak picture of bifurcation.
Don’t you miss the days when things hurt, when books were preferable to thinking. These free feelings don’t sit right in my skin. Here in a flash, and gone. I listened and you were all distinctly confused. If this was just one thing I could touch it, but maybe that’s the point.
When it’s cold enough to see my breath, when it’s so hot you can’t look at the road. These are the times when I can hold a picture, these are the days when I choose for myself.
I am self diagnosed–I will swear I’m going blind. When the wind changes I’ll be the first to turn and eat my own. Call it awkward charity, believe it selfish boredom. Ideas spread like wildfire and I’ve been burned too many times.