night sneaks up like a child’s bedtime; i rub my eyes into the sleeve of my shirt, aching for god or my mother. extremities become detachable & friends become saints in a way that is more than sacrifice or holy divinity.
the desire to be wanted only arrives during the most intense isolation, sitting in the corner of a room, listening to apologies turned argument; "i was right all along, you should have done the thing i told you to do, & now you didn't, & now look where you are."
i don’t know if i am hungry, or just alone. i want to be high.
