Same Old Malaise



It’s in the way you get laid complaining that others don’t treat you like a woman. That they use you as an object, like a machine, ready and willing at the drop of a hat to fulfil their every need. Just a phone call away, and you’re theirs to do with as they please. The little death coming quick, and that’s it until next time, only it hurts that they don’t care. That they won’t wrap their arms around you and show you some warmth. It’s how those tears burn your flesh as you lay there at night so fearful of being alone as life tries its best to forget you. Stuttering into the middle of the road, you’d chuck yourself beneath the wheels of a bus if you could, but something pulls you back. Maybe a golden abacus, or the thought that there might just be something more than these empty acts after all. Reproduction fills a gap, but it ties you to a way of being that offers little of interest save for momentary forgetfulness. All those relationships to starve off boredom, only there’s nothing more boring than going through the motions with those who can’t see beyond their sense of self. So many dead souls just waiting to swallow you up, and even though you claim to be above it, you’re deep down in it. They don’t want to take you to their heart. They’ll sooner break you if it’s what they fancy, and you’ll let them do it again and again. Maybe it’s the thrill of being controlled or just the useless acts of a girl who once had something special in her eyes- although such magic has now been drowned in the guilt of a thousand yesterdays. Rain and damp bedsheets. Undressing with dreary results. The same ol’ same ol’, the likes of which you’ll keep on tasting until one day it’s too late. The pleasures of sin won’t be at your disposal forever. They’ll fade like whispered nothings in a memory torn to pieces by a diseased mind. Today is transitory. Revel in it for a while, but remember to let go before it’s too late. Fruit so fruitless when you keep holding on. Flowers left in a vase in the sun, dried out and dying and of no concern to anyone. The layers of desperation like layers of make-up, thickening with every passing year.

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