Itís one of those nights where
The asphalt discourteously blots out the heavens
and the cool hum of the engine is drowned out
by my own deliberation. I sit, packed or
sandwiched, rather, between Jealousy and
Acrimony, who find it necessary to quarrel
over my lap, as if I were a concealed mediator
present for the sole purpose of providing the illusion
I am not concerned;
I know my own boundaries, and I would do well
to lighten up once in a while.
The cause of my affliction, if it exists,
most likely isn't ubiquitous. It lies somewhere
behind me, in a body more charming than quicksand
and a pair of radiant jewels
sharper than envy; that I know all too well.
But I've since severed my connections from such familiarity,
because I can't deal with the intricacies of
navigating the human psyche.
So Iím not afraid of nervous breakdowns,
But I am deathly terrified of quality control.
I take pride in my anxiety, but it is mine and mine only.
It means more to me than secondhand comradeship,
or perpetual regret, or futility and lamentations in the form of
unheard voicemails and awkward glances, or most of all,