It Never Stops

Waiting for the next calamity.

You told me today that you are coming to see me, I felt the weight of every inequivalent love I've ever felt.
(And each of my imperfections that made me terrible as I lie in bed.)
I told my boss that I couldn't breathe, it is better that he didn't understand.

I swear that I'm trying to be the bigger person, do things right, try. Replace the food I eat, be honest with the people that deserve it, drive the right way in parking lots, shower regularly, never call into work, pick up ice cubes, leave the melodramatics in my head, return calls and texts, buy brown mushrooms, forgive. Nothing matters.

I come to the conclusion again, and again, my "insomnia" is with intent. Having all this energy, to think, feel, panic. Lulling myself down into a watery stupor.

After much practice, I have slowly been perfecting the cure to my hands trembling. It is inappropriate, and blatantly obvious. It's like a chinese finger trap, and for years I held tight, stiffened, helping nothing. Loosen your hands as much as you can, put no muscle nor thought into them, feel them fading away.

I'm losing my head.
You collected yourself, I eventually but always get let go of in that process.

I need to be alone, I mean really, really alone, I am saying this with no reason aside from feeling it so genuinely. What I mean is that others do not mean it. I want to be there for those others. I can't.
Temper tantrum. 

Gouge out my eyes, scoop the sockets with my fingers.
Closure is for pussies.