orange juice

i’m good at this. reframing it; making the best of a bad deal. call it a coping mechanism. call it lessons learned in therapy, taken miles too far and tie it off with a nice neat bow. box it up, in a thousand half-formed narratives. take them out on recycling day, don’t watch as they go.

i know how to do this: rub the sleep from my eyes, chug a cup of coffee and scroll through my phone all morning, hoping for escape. but it never goes away, and my mind just keeps spinning, and spinning…

but it’s all right because i’ve done this a million times; before reshaped the story, like it’s wet clay in my palms. and if i ever make it big, you’ll find this someday, won’t you? and you’ll rip it to shreds, unless you don’t, because i’m better.

because shame slips easy down my throat, like orange juice; hates me so much more than you do, as i wrap myself up in barbed wire fence and lock myself in the confines of my room.

but i don’t know what i’m talking about. i don’t have a clue. so maybe it’s fine. maybe i could settle for this, maybe… maybe the sounds of suburbia could lull me off to dreamland, and i’d be good. i’d be fine.

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