these girls he likes, pocky and overmade up and young and angry in their golden green misanthropic gullibility, stylish and ugly. flicking ashes from cigarettes, smiling knowingly. it kills me to see the poweder over their pimples, to know his indiscrete discretions are so indisccriminate. and one after another they burrow the hole deeper that he tries to fill with their transitory services and they feel like a vacation spot when they are only a pit stop.
and it angers me, every time I have to see one of them, haughty and filled with entitlement, his arm casually draped around them, smiling and nestling at them. like they are real. like they matter. the frustration is more than enfuriating, it is the bonecrushing embodiment of a sideswipe that paralyzes my words and crushes my will
but it's nothing compared to the drop when he invites me to step off my perch, to leave my arrogant observation behind, and to take a tour of my own through this grandcanyon of loneliness, so deep that I am lost in it almost immediately, so vast and uncharted that no one would ever have the energy to find me there, and yet I expect him to notice me there with a smile on my face, I expect him to see my beauty by the small fire I've kept to keep me warn, I expect him to realize that I am not not not just one of them