It Still Hurts Though
I feel like texting poems like how I guess you sext the potential friend on the screen… You can see what’s next: My companion: imagination. My comfort: non-existent. Another wandering path of pitiful persistence. I’m sorry for myself lying alone in bed staring at my phone sideling pillow ‘neath my head
yet this is but a slice of life compounded to a whole crests troughs valleys mountains
depressions suck and pull
I’m happy in my sadness; alone in isolation; looks like the key to sleep comes from some maturation.
My opinion of myself isn’t built on theirs or yours. My opinion of myself stems from worth in chores.
I choose this temporary lonliness affirming authenticiy. I don’t text false idols who mirror insecurity.
It still hurts though