present state of mind on a monday night in november

I’m weary of pressure and melting into a tiny, metal cup. Empty Campbells. Let me settle, irritably flexing my gel. These perforated edges contain my gelish self. Drip, leek, drop, drizzle onto the floor. Here I slush around tile and absorb salty rye crumbs.

And you’re new. You’re nice and new.

You are so pretty. New. Nice. Pretty.

And something to look forward to.

An idea, which is you.

It’s not important when, just not too soon. It is very important when. Not too soon. Not soon. Stop. FUCKING STOP.

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