You are a disaster to me.

I hope for you to hurt, despite knowing that will chew up my insides all slow but sure.
I watch where I walk and where I think because you're around every single corner in my head.
You made me really skinny (I eat hot chips without fear): not sure that counts as a plus side.
And you still exist, and I'm still not happy about it, although this other thing over here makes me feel a little tiny bit normal sometimes.

A couple.

I'm standing on platform 23 again.
This unobtrusively pretty girl - well,
she sort of looks up at him like she's got him.
Sort of looks downwards and then upwards like
she sort of knows she's the most charming to him and
the flowers in his hand, upright, agree.
And he's all leaning against the pole there.

Flowers are one of those things that catch value
from their own brash and brassy mortality.
People say that about about humanity, people I've heard,
but they aren't right about that.

Anyway their hips are touching just and - well,
I sort of look away but the way that they
can't even see anyone else is sort of maybe fascinating
or atrocious or something else lucidly-coloured.
It makes your eyes hurt. You?
You only gave me flowers once or twice.
Maybe you remembered the romantic
boulders and blocks in my head or maybe, you know,
you just didn't think of it and that's
another delicate little excuse I make
for the overestimated you I invented.

11:45pm.

i hate you i hate you i hate you.