Wasted Hours

A deviant party trick, I once showed a boy how I can bend my arm backwards flat and aching towards my shoulder, an accomplishment if you can call it that. Flung forward from my wasted youth blossomed a repressed memory. I recollect an attempt to excavate my eyes, the known "windows to the soul" that have since found their pin-pricks abused, soft with misuse, grown to shut not absorb.

I have placed myself into an insidious prison; I daily confront the impassable mechanics of the human mind and whisper softly into pillows the lists I construe. It’s often easier to think about my life in the form of bullet points rather than the fleeting moments I exist within, which hold a stench of lost expectations.

I feel like a maddened Hamlet, the world has been lit ablaze by human disgust. The red-top news indulges its voyeuristic tendencies through anecdotes of other peoples misery, other peoples peripeteia. I feel saturated with tales I've heard mistakenly, they are the lives of strangers yet I often remember them as my own. Sometimes I think I belong in a landfill. 

Squandered intelligentsia will not comfort you on your deathbed; I've smothered myself with academic anticipation, perhaps genius cannot be bought with a student loan. Miserable like Havisham I live on my mattress, the television screeching, I hold conference to a polyamourous relationship with consumable media. I don't need to know how I feel, my chemical reactions are spoon fed into me. The throwaway lifestyle has left me on the precipice of panic, constantly swelling over. I forget how my lips look when they shape words, I'm not sure if I can scrape out barely a whisper in front of anyone. 

 Since fourteen I have fixated plasters on to the end of my fingers, I'm afraid of what human contact might scar me with.  I remember climbing into my mother's bed during high school. I’d always have damp cheeks, which in turn made the bed sheets hold a curious vapor like sea salt. She would offer advice that I would gobble up, maternal wisdom which long lingered in the air after it had been spoken. 

On the rare opportunities that you can see the stars in the urban sky I think I might have saw your left knee cap in the constellations. Now uncovered in the gloom, it seems more fragile than I can care to remember. 

Most mornings I ache to remember my philosophy; "If I am not by default an intelligent girl with motives, enigma and aspirations then by default I am nothing at all". 

The End

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