It was in the way she pursed her cold, thin lips. The way her head bobbed at each condescending syllable. It was her empty eyes behind her glasses. It was her neatly clasped fingers placed in front of her, demanding my submission. I whisked her away with slights of my smiles and the thousands of my nods. I called her a cunt, and it wasn't so bad. It's just the mornings. It's just the bitterly pleasant way of reminding me how enslaved I've been with my own temperaments. The merciless melancholy I surrender to.
I could never sit still in a classroom anyway. I still can't now and I probably never will. I started walking to my car after that infuriating class and recognized a long piece of brightly colored yellow paper lounging on my windshield. I dropped my sleepless head on my shoulder and shuffled sluggishly to my car. Another parking ticket. The first parking ticket is still sitting in the glove box, waiting for me to pay it off. I remember driving home, submerged under my carelessly 'suicidal' thoughts. Anger don't mean a thing. Sadness don't mean a thing. But death will remain meaningful. And so, I found myself home, craving some mindless emptiness as I sunk deeper. But as I do recall, I always find myself sinking anyway, wishing I was a rather bit more mindlessly empty.
Sweating. I remember the warmth that would veil my face. I'd feel immobilized. Paralyzed. Breathing out of pace. And I finally remember; I produce nothing. I construct nothing. I have done nothing for as long as I can remember. And all I ever plead for is to rip away from my own consciousness. To rip away from every rotting bone in my body and from every straggled skeleton in my closet...
I could never sit still in a classroom anyway. I still can't now and I probably never will. I started walking to my car after that infuriating class and recognized a long piece of brightly colored yellow paper lounging on my windshield. I dropped my sleepless head on my shoulder and shuffled sluggishly to my car. Another parking ticket. The first parking ticket is still sitting in the glove box, waiting for me to pay it off. I remember driving home, submerged under my carelessly 'suicidal' thoughts. Anger don't mean a thing. Sadness don't mean a thing. But death will remain meaningful. And so, I found myself home, craving some mindless emptiness as I sunk deeper. But as I do recall, I always find myself sinking anyway, wishing I was a rather bit more mindlessly empty.
Sweating. I remember the warmth that would veil my face. I'd feel immobilized. Paralyzed. Breathing out of pace. And I finally remember; I produce nothing. I construct nothing. I have done nothing for as long as I can remember. And all I ever plead for is to rip away from my own consciousness. To rip away from every rotting bone in my body and from every straggled skeleton in my closet...
