Passing Time In-Between A Decision That WIll Lead To Either Happiness Or Suicide.

I stuck my fingers into the surface of the parking lot pavement in an attempt to reverse the orbit of the earth so I can go back to the four days I spent with you because my eyes are unable to make out the shape of the future without you in it.

Blurred with tears.

Of course it was a stupid idea, I am not special or strong, which is why my fingertips have been sanded down to bloody nubs reminding me of broken pencil tips.

And the tears fell into the wounds causing them to sting.

But the stings felt good. Deserved. Like someone who cuts themselves to relieve the pain.

I'm a piece of shit who has failed once again at something important.
I deserve worse.

I passed a dumpster and felt the urge to climb in, close the lid, and put a plastic bag over my head so I wouldn't have to trouble anyone with the clean up — yes, sometimes I can be considerate.

Instead, I checked my cellphone for any change in the screen but all I kept seeing was that stupid fucking clock and today's date.

(No new messages.)

I started punching the teeth out of each passing minute and collected them in an old shoe box that I will give to you when I'm ready to show you I can be patient.

Alone in the silence, I learned how to have conversations with myself.

I learned that I hate having conversations with myself.

Because I'm so fucking predictable.

And I'm causing us to both suffer from my predictability.

Whenever I have a knife in my hand, I think about slicing my tongue off, and afterwards, anyone I have ever known will form a line, come up, shake my hand, congratulate me on a job well done, and say, "Thank you. Seriously, you don't know how much this means to all of us. Thanks again."

Same shit happens whenever I use scissors.

I should have told you to wait instead of letting you drive off, I just felt bad because you said you had to do homework. And in retrospect, I know that sounds so fucking stupid.

I should have hugged you in my arms and locked our fingers together forever, if you agreed.

I should have never left that Waffle House parking lot to go back to Pennsylvania.

I should have never left you, which is why I use the dress you gave me as a blanket, and pretend like it's your body, wrapping it around my self before I go to sleep.

But like I said, I pretend: Your dress isn't you; it is an inanimate object unable to talk, kiss, or touch.

Unable to feel or give off warmth.

It doesn't get me hard.

Or love me.

Nor can I give it a back rub, and take it out to a Mexican/Caribbean restraint, after going shopping.

I'm sorry for leaving.

I don't have a religion, but I will dedicate myself to you because it feels right.

It feels good.

And good is a word that hasn't exist in my vocabulary.

I don't know what the common thread is because my thought processed is so scattered, illogical, and fucked up.

Making no sense.

You said you need time to think, which has never been a good sign in the past.

Usually means: OVER.

I fucked up, so I've been getting fucked up by not taking showers, and injecting ice water into the veins in my forehead to pass the time in-between a decision that will lead to either happiness or suicide.


But I will wait, punching seconds, collecting teeth, until my whole body goes numb.