I haven’t cried since I started taking the white pills.
I used to dream of extraordinary things. Now I think of ordinary things.
I tried to tell you quietly why I didn’t believe in our lives anymore, but you didn’t listen. I grew quieter and mad in my towering glower eating the loneliest salads.
The trees ask me why I don’t think they’re different anymore. I see the red one amongst the sticks and it’s so assuredly red amongst the dead and I don’t care.
One day I spread my fingers and yell to them all at once, “Because I am too busy trying to save this drowning world! I am too busy trying to understand why we are starving, why we are thirsting, how our hearts can break and beat at the same time, how we can love so much and be alone. I am trying to understand how we believe we give a fuck when half of us are thinking about lunch and the other half about how wrong we were for doing the wrong things again and again.”
“Shhhh,” they say, “you will never know why you told him to go when you wanted him to stay.”