Notes on a Suburban Scandal

This place is for losing. For the coward in me who is too frightened to do the choosing.

The place my whole being begs to be heard by you. To laugh with you… You’re the only one who gets me. Without that feeling I draw a needle back and it reveals me, empty.

It literally hurts. My goodness this breathing when you’re not talking, when you’ve stopped singing – it hurts.

Have you become so unfeeling?

And then I play the game… I play the game all alone and I feel it tearing my whole being apart. I remember why I hate loving you. Why I wanted to escape from our madness.

My therapist would call this a thinking error — narrow thinking or catastrophic thinking. It’s a sign of a chemical imbalance and I find that shit funny because you’re my chemical equivalent to whatever that feeling is called that’s past serenity except when you’re not, sometimes you’re not. Still, it’s fucking better than anything else I’ve gotimage

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