but what exactly have you been doing all day

i lie on my back hoping the rot that consumes these floorboards creeps over me too, i wonder what my life would have been if i had been more secure, braver or just more defiant, if i had known i could not fuck up and act on that premise but its not the case- i fuck up - in small constant ways in minute lags of silence in misplaced laughter and held-in anger and every time i take my coat off in summer i kick myself further away from the herd, i listen to the strimmers in the gardens, i listen to the hoarse yells of the workmen, i listen to the students screaming and drinking upstairs, i piss in the shower, and i am sure they are talking about me- i eat for my phantom child and throw it all up -

when i am not busy with that i get the duster or the hoover out and use it as an excuse to chant fuckyou fuckyou fuckyou under my breath,   i laugh into empty air pockets at nothing but my continued existence. it's a joke that never seems to get old

asshole, i love you, but if i have to hear one more time how easy i have it and how hard your job is particularly as you have to pretend to give a fuck all day - every time i am explaining that i hurt i am complaining and every time you are complaining it is justified - and then you do a small thing like tighten your mouth or look at your watch and i snap and now i am so evil , oh, so violent.

i am sorry enough without having to apologise to you. i'm not asking for sympathy, just a bit of fucking comfort and less stories about being bullied and how girls used to slap your ass without your consent and you used to cry yourself to sleep at night for 2 years. there is only room for one dead weight at a time in this partnership, and i carry you so much, and you let me down

no, you carried me too long. i've let you down