I am slowly believing that there are not enough things to believe in.
Like: even when I love you I get lonely. Eating Cocoa Puffs
gets lonely. Getting lonely gets lonely. Grass gets lonely
so I step on it, but I forget to wear tennis shoes and now my feet itch.
Vicodin gets lonely so I rest it on the back of my tongue.

There are days when my stomach never fills: it threatens infidelity.
I tell my stomach to shut the fuck up.
My stomach makes my shins hurt which makes my funny
bone tingle which makes my eyes water.

I take pills so I don’t have to go back.
$35 a month and they sit on the kitchen counter.
$35 a month so you don’t hide in the bathroom with the faucet running.
$35 a month is what it costs to not get lonely, I guess.

I make a list of things to do today: learn how to cook eggplant, raise an ant farm,
quit thinking about the cigarettes I quit two years ago. Sad thing:
I lose the to-do list so I fall asleep on the couch
a little too upset to find a blanket. When I wake up, I bake

a batch of lemon cookies. There’s a daddy-longlegs walking across the ceiling.
I burn the cookies because you’re not here to kill
the spider, and I have to wait for it to creep to the other side
of the room, which takes a while, because spiders don’t give a fuck
about oven timers. I don’t like burnt lemon cookies; they smell bad,

so I bury them under my green shag rug. I don’t have a green shag rug.
I don’t know where I just buried them.

“Burnt Lemon Cookies Smell Bad” by Gregory Sherl  (via prettierinthedark)

(Source: tenderbean, via saramjc)