One Two Timers

The emptiness is vast. Seven days I've been home, seven chances to be alone. Even surrounded, in a flurry of snipping scissors, the lines are drawn in heavy definitive ink. Like someone killed a squid to get the point across.

I want to say it's been a month, but it hasn't. It's been longer, optical illusion like. Yet I still can't seem to sync back up. Your feet keep rhythm better than my headphones...the sound distance drowns out all that positive bullshit talk that hippies burn to keep warm. Someone forgot their goji berries this morning.

What a fucking year.

I'm so tired of being along. Even worse I hate people. I hate interacting. I hate this fucking cycle.

But I can't hate him.

Even as my heart breaks. There was no time to prepare. No choice. Adapt or die.

It's hard to tell someone what you want when they're telling you what they need.

Mirror Mirror on the wall....what the fuck do I do now.