rocketships

Terror. The ocean is great. I'm small and barely notable, me with my constructs of what a life is and what it means to be Here. The sky is vast. The stars are unknowable. We hurtle through the darkness and shadows that cradle space towards an ultimate demise of ice and other things too majestic for my humble being to understand. My constructs are meaningless. I am, by extension, stripped of meaning and alone, as is the human race.

Here it is

I'm just going to sit here,
cozy in bed
drinking my beer,
reading the news,

listening to you stumble around in your room
and hoping that it won't be yours soon.

And now I'm discovering
with indecent haste
the awkward annoyance
of the flavor of distaste.
It tastes like pity, self hate, anger, indignation.

I kind of hate you? I kind of hate you.

But if this were another world
and I were another girl, or whatever,
boy, or beast, something more tame
Without this pride that blackens my name

Maybe we'd get along. But probably not
because the flavor of distaste

surely

is so pungent as to permeate the infinite.



(Probably.)