I Get Home on the 23rd
I ate and drank and laughed. I read about space on two separate, unrelated occasions.
My friend Ellie texted me to say Happy Thanksgiving, something not everybody texts you in your twenties anymore.
My dad showed me his model homes, cars, and roads for a long time online.
My cousin Nicole sent me a weird little e-card somehow through text. It was so sweet to think of her, thinking of me.
I am still grieving the end of something I thought I needed. I don’t know what I actually need. Perhaps the lobotomy.
I think, “maybe we can be friends,” but being friends would mean I didn’t actually care about him the way I did. Being friends is a mockery to what you used to feel.
I couldn’t make my friend Ellie’s bed as good as she makes it and nobody tried my store-bought sweet potato pie. You’re supposed to leave the treats you bring rather than ask for them back.
I am optimistic that this could be my last holiday feeling so low. I have planted many seeds that might grow, and it might be a good life. Everything needs watering, even in the snow.
A beautiful girl told me,
alone among the animals, man loves noise
