simmering

it’s 2am and opening my eyes in the dark tears began to pour. i feel deeply inconsolable so sit up and began typing in the dark while gripped with aberrant waves of self-pity tinged with disgust at my attachment to this machine, this blue plate special promising that with just a small purchase of treasured emotions i can walk away full and still have enough saved to find nourishment for the remainder of the day. my thoughts are silverware. overused. rusted. bent from over-chewing the merits of slop and pretending the substance served has purpose beyond sugaring a counterfeit calm. there are a million ways to braise a leg of loneliness but only one way it can be consumed. alone.

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