quick and "painless"

cold air itches at my skin,
i play indie music through my headphones
until they drown everything out 
and i can only hear the gentle rhythm

downstairs, they watch tv. 
i know this because i can hear the sounds, 
the music and voices of a movie
that i was not invited to.  
on the phone with the Air Queen, 
i was left by myself and ignored. 

i blink back a curious sense of neglect, 
a sinking loneliness that i am unfamiliar with,
and all i can think to myself is,
"This cannot be all there is."

my mother once told me, 
when i was small and vulnerable,
"People will eventually stop trying." 
she planted seeds of self-doubt in my young mind,
and i don't know what she must have been thinking
to tell that to a child - that they weren't worth the effort. 

yet here i sit, 
cold and shivering but unwilling to close the window, 
shoulders bowed and head bent, 
trying to connect back to the writing moods i get,
where the words seem to flow in my veins, 
and i feel like i would bleed stanzas. 

but i do not - i feel as though i am 
making this rough and uneven and amateur. 
but this bone-deep sense of sadness
has yet to leave me. 

The End

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