Days

I eat smoke for breakfast and defend my belief that life here is just a spiral of epic proportions.

He sits on a bench drinking whiskey from a paper cup while begging for a quiet end to this ordeal. She leans over the water and asks, have I not always been a quiet soul? He laughs and asks her to remember a wedding party ten years ago, where she sang of pigeons and broken promises.

She takes her hat off and looks at me, while I pretend not to exist behind a thin veil of white curls.

Three quarters of an hour ago I stopped crying and decided that the world was a series of explosions, and everything in between is just Wednesdays, where the world melts down in collective shame.

I don’t really know how to say this, but sometimes I like sitting among others while I break.

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