titles are so trite

so i am thinking, of more to write, but it never comes and nothing is enough. it’s not long enough and oh jeez i’m hungry. but why am i so worried about insufficiencies and set backs?

they are eating sandwiches upstairs and i hate them for it, another dish i have to clean. they’re reading books upstairs and i’m exasperated because how much longer can i listen to the drone of words on paper. and i am listening to happy families from outside the window, feeling damp at best. I hate peer pressure, but i’m constantly hugging you around the neck and your lips turn into bruises on a white face. Emma called him a child, but i was in love with the tender spots. i am thinking about saying sorry, for how we hadn’t talked in such a long time. “sorry” i said, “for the cut off from my life, it was dumb and lame”

“it’s cool” he said, “but hey i have to go, talk to you later”

“later”, i was disappointed at best.

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