thought catalogue.

the greedy gruesome monster that gnaws away at you while you

try and do just about anything,

you feel sick, until there's the resolve. 

and yet, 

can the resolve come if you don't explain?

that it was you who ripped the wallpaper/ate the last nectarine/forgot to order the TESCO weekly/hurt feelings/ lied/did it as if nothing else mattered in the world? 

And it wasn't the right "him" was it? 


The End

1 comment about this poem Feed