ineffective

I’ve always found solace in the sadness
In the solitary madness
Methods are of no virtue
Conglomerates of pain
Real and imagined
I see your face
And touch it
And think entirely too much
And figure out my answers
You see, I’m very good at intros
An expert at goodbyes
It’s the middle that kills me
That unravels me
Not Monday or Tuesday or Thursdays or Friday or Saturday
But it’s never a Sunday. Ever.
It’s Wednesday
Halfway through my morning
I roil and churn and disintegrate
Into unrequited pining insecurity and neediness
That manifests upon my skin
And lips
And trembling fingertips
I get neurotic
And wordy
And lace up my boots
And bundle up
And freeze
And burst
And undo all that I’ve learned to be true
The tears
The internal treachery
My cold black heart
My disillusion
My wanton desire
My melty little train wrecky spirit
Shows its ugly little pout
And dares you to accuse it off begging
So much motion and inertia and upheaval
Because I can never bring myself to say three simple words in a way that’s sincere
Without the mush and gush and slush of my girlish wiles
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
And that’s the reason for my nonsense