September, 2022.
Outside of myself now, and my flatmate chews just like
my best friend from my hometown,
and I can’t trace the wood on this desk, but
these pages smell
like the scented candles I melted down in the kitchen
of my house.
The air smells like it did that time I got out of the car
in Rio but,
I suppose that’ll change when the snow falls down.
And I wish I were as brave as I was when
there were monsters underneath the couch,
but it’s just me and myself now.
The will to leave things behind is in my blood, things
I don’t know how to hold
without choking them cold, so
I’ll smoke out the window, and
stare at the pages in this journal,
as the ink and the paper are
the only ones
I’ve ever let stay.
unpleasant conversations 