All I do is eat.
All I want to do.
eat. eat. eat. eat. eat. eat. Glutton.
slobbery mess of make-believe depression
alone on my bed in my 3-day-worn PJs sinking in to the mattress of destruction but I lack the energy to just pick up my hand that holds the trigger of a spoon.
Procrastination eats at me faster than I can finish the contents of my refrigerator.
It leaves me starving. Starving for something more. Another spoonful, perhaps.
But, no. MORE.
I’ll pop. I’ll burst. I’ll explode and all my love will come out.
Right at the end. In death I will finally learn the lessons I hold in and stuff down.
The gifts I won’t let myself give and the art I’m too mortal to express.
My soul will burst out like a little baby.
I wait for it with a longing so strong it outshines love.
Can I die now? and explode.
The things I hold back are dynamite inside me.
But, I’ll just sit here and turn the TV on again. Maybe the faces and voices on there will have the easy answers I choose to settle for.
Oh shit, where’s the spoon? Ice cream in my sheets again.
I’ll clean it up later.
along with my insides.
after the explosion.
if it ever comes.