I have often wondered
what it must be like
to be so very lost,
there exists no possibility
of finding one’s way home again.
That’s a lie.
I’ve never wondered it.
I’ve never wondered anything.
I just sit on my hands
and do nothing.
That’s a lie.
I’ve never sat on my hands.
I just talk a lot of shit
in hopes that I’ll find
something that sounds good
and stick with it.
That’s not a lie.
Unless it is.
Help me;
I’ve got the wrong flavor
on my tongue
and all I can imagine
is you kissing me
and thinking I’m
someone else.
What if you
like her better?
Anxious
