Insect Bitten Ankles and Tear Duct Expectorant Insect bitten ankles and recycled radio. We lose
patience, evaporating in after-dark vapor. I want
a pencil. I want a fucking pencil. I want
to masturbate. I want to be alone. The
music is too loud, the apartment too full.
Nothing sifts through my mind anymore. It is
stuffy cluttered. I don’t know things and
I want desperately to cry and I can’t.
I feel frighteningly close to hurting myself and
the floor pulls away from me at odd
and inappropriate moments and Jay and Andy
keep telling me how I’m so much
more here than I used to be and I
shudder to hear it. What makes it so
frustrating is I know I would feel better
after I cried and I can’t. I wish there
was tear-duct expectorant.  ¶ 7:07 PM