sonnets

on a call lasting longer than intended, spilling frustrations to the poor listener on the other side. he’s patient and listens, offers guidance wrapped in a soft blanket of kind advice. feelings are mixed. men will not risk loyalty over opinion, and though the same things, claim there are differences in cloth.

they scurry away like rats who’ve been caught eating cheese with no traps in sight but i know what it feels like to be the cheese and the rat. they’ve left the house to me but i’m too tired to clean, the mess insurmountable.

i want to cry and scream at the same time but there’s another call in thirty minutes and it takes an hour for redness to dissipate. looking over at an incoming email i glance through an 8-page to do list and scan my desk, wondering how many days the six half-filled cups of liquid have been sitting here. i forget what time it gets dark because it’s always dark in this apartment. i’ve begun neglecting myself again.

he keeps talking and i glance up to a book filled with shakespeare’s love sonnets. i pick it up and smile as he continues, begin reading and then can’t help but let the tears flow.

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