The stench of my own jealousy wreaks as the eucalypti on the kitchen table bathe in the doting sunlight. The audacity of its presence, making its way into anyone’s home. I want to be the sun. I want to barge into rooms that aren’t mine, claim space in homes that don’t belong to me, and latch unsuspecting victims onto my warmth. I hope it tells all my secrets and calls all my bluffs.
I claw at the wall interrogating destiny but she told me to save it for my weekly therapy session. Fair enough. I’d love to have a someone here I could get sick of but all I have are brief scenes from fictional stories I’ve made up over time. There’s no shame in loving someone who can’t handle it but it just, how you say: sucks. I wrote a song the other day called I Hate This. The only lyrics are “I hate this, I hate this,” and what makes it a song is that I sing it with a phoned in melody.
When this is all over with I’ll kiss whoever I want, wherever I want. I’ll drive six hours to get French fries in that small town upstate where the main attraction is a strip mall Canadians flock to when they cross the border. I’ll count the wrinkles in my friend’s faces when they smile, taking a magnifying glass to the details that can’t be captured through a lens on a MacBook Pro. I’ll clock the furniture and artwork in all their apartments that didn’t make it into the frame of the Zooms and Google Hangouts. I’ll build a shrine for all their idiosyncrasies and place crowns around their flaws.
I like the alone time but I called 911 because I haven’t laughed in days. I’ve giggled at words written on a page rehearsed, recited, recorded, and played for millions, sure. But laughing at something organically stupid and mundane, that’s the salt of the earth. That’s the stuff the sun is jealous of.
I Haven't Laughed In Days
