painfully clear

the life of a saint

unpredictability

all to the fact

that he is dead

i live on

against my will

great and selfish

sacrifice

my jazzy guilt

the trap hole

I slide my finger along the white table cloth. The rings from the whisky glass are getting darker. Spreading. Like the rings under my eyes. Spreading. I twist my wrist, a bad habit.
‘But who cares?’ I yell. My skinny voice absorbed by the street noise blowing in from the open window.

‘Who cares? Life?’.

I hate when the melancholic self-hate takes over, leaving me shivering but untouched. I twist my wrist again, close the window.
‘I don’t care. It is my life’.

i used to call men

under a woman name

i don’t recall

sometimes we talked for hours

sometimes they yelled the phone dead

didn’t matter

what we said

soon forgotten

i never called the same man twice

a day at the hospital