hot mess rests

listening to love songs and

drinking mint tea

is a far better way to spend the day than

being productive.

reminiscence makes me 

want

to

cry and vomit

so i avoid filling my stomach with

anything but

this tea, here

and a tear or two

slipping between my moist lips

and swallowed whole.

(these last four months have created a disaster)

and i sit

waiting

for answers and questions and exclamations 

of anything but

want and need.

what if? what if?

maybe i've made more mistakes since

you

than i ever will

for the rest of the time i

breathe in the sweet scent of

nothingness

and the steam streaming from my mug

is nothing but a

screaming voice unheard

waiting to be let free.

he

is not the object of my affections

and i obviously don't know anything

at

all.

(hotmess.)