Exhausting. Feet dragging. Utterly draining. A nap on the shower floor just because it feels like the most comfortable and sanctioned place where you are the warden.

Mornings after the second alarm has been turned off, laying fist under my chin, my bad eye still shut, and lips unknowingly flattened still kissing my teeth. Not dreading the next 24 hours, but also not primed for the roll call of repetition that every day brings.

A “what is it going to be today,” type feeling. The recent release of that almost-lover, the everyday bullshit, the front of non-existent botherments. Like i said, the bullshit.

Everyone’s proclaimed social butterfly, transitioned to hibernation specialist. Contemporary companionships are a current avoidance and self-sabotage. A sort of “if I force myself to go, I am going to be the most unappealing life form you will never want to meet again.”

However, I have never been the greatest at this whole emo-kid thing. So, my attempt at non-allurance gets casted as sassy, play-hard to which some gravitate. Then, it turns into the 2k sprint to the pillow hills of my domiciled sanctuary.

I do not hate everything, but I really do not want to go. Ever. Every event’s outcome to become preconceiveably predictable. The gravitational pull to anything that opposes going out or to endure social outings is the presentation.

The complacency that is within lonesome self-caretaking neither scares nor gratifies the soul. Overbearingly exhausted, but not tired. Weariness to those surrounding.

A state of being. Unknowingly stored in the sub-conscious to bring on an attack to pour out of my tear ducts but internally burn from my chest.

What’s wrong? Results forceful finger pointing to what could be just that. When at hand is nothing words could express.

Coming to terms that my generosity is a gift even if it feels so cursing. There are so many who are not willing to still give when there’s nothing left. Could be why I feel so desolate. Any to who craves even a fraction of entirety, my patch to sew.

An acrylic nail to the woven heart motion.

Emotionally and internally snagged.

Taylor, that I am. In more ways than one.

-t