Untitled #8

I can't explain this state that I'm in. This state of existence, of terrible being.
You knew that I was broken pretty bad. You left me in silence.

And the reckless abandon that we had. You ran outside without your shoes and told me not to follow you.
Of course.
What a curious place we had found in that greenhouse in the yard. There were lights all around, silvery gray. Whispers of ghosts gone by. Small tendrils crawled their way out of a pot in the center of the room.

The petals unfurled, revealing a

fuck this shit.

What the fuck am I doing here? I hate this place. It's repulsive. The people are fucking pricks with no regard for anything except their grande no-fat lattes and their fake and bakes.
God, this place.

I can't explain this state that I'm in. I could tell you, but the telling gets old.
I fight with myself every day. I fight. I spar. Just jump on a bus. Go somewhere. It's not like you really need to do any of this --
NO. FUCK YOU. I DO.
This place doesn't allow for such freedom. Such happiness. No. It's a dark thing, a ravenous, hungry beast that sucks any scrap of anything less than superficial happiness out of you. It just doesn't lend itself to that. We aren't significant. Just little tin soldiers beating some little tin life, pretending like it matters. We're just floating in space.
I can't understand why we keep whispering when we mean harsh, brutal things.
You're not fooling anyone.
We should be screaming our lungs out all the time.