Her guilty hands

Now what, now where, now who?
Clearly you’ve made the impression to you, me, and everyone we know that you don’t give a fuck.
You’re a stone-hearted machine that shits emotions when he’s done with them and moves on mechanically, methodically, just another day. With blase apathy you repeat and repeat the same mundane cycle of minimum wage labor traded immediately for poor investments like an evening of intoxication or a sorry excuse for a drug deal that earns you discounted pills as profit.
That’s profit? THat’s profit sliding down that shard of tinfoil you scrounged form the trash, through my broken pen you inhale ghostly white smoke and the room reeks of toasted marshmallows, that’s not your mother’s s’mores.
That’s supposed to be your man stripped down to boxers you bought as pajama shorts, leaving ash stains on the furniture, eyes fluttering in slow motion, lips pursed like a child’s.

Like he wants to kiss you, but can’t coordinate the muscle movement for sign of such affection. So you interpret his pouty lips as a romantic yearning, and you convince yourself you’re desired and that’s enough to satisfy the emotional void, that’s enough to fall asleep tonight.

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