A poem.

Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

You don’t want vacant days
you don’t want to fall in love on vacant days
no really, you really don’t

This is what happens:
you sit around
as a dense, black fog of thought
engulfs you
strangles you
suffocates you
she’s all you can think about

while she’s out there
making hay
slaving away
it’s not ok
you seem ok
I’m not ok

It’s not a pretty feeling
not a pretty feeling
just sits in your stomach
and doesn’t move for days
doesn’t move for SHIT

stupid things
I want a tattoo of you
that’s what happens

that’s what happens.



Photo by Nathan Lindahl on Unsplash

I’d like to be back in the front seat
with you and Michael Kors
and all the things we shouldn’t do
but we did

this feeling represents an addiction to those moments
and depression when they’re gone

Your face looks different
when its only inches from mine
‘don’t waste my time’
hurts more on vacant, sunny Wednesdays

weaning myself off you
like heroin and the sting