cold mornings on hot days
you awake at
ten after, half past seven,
late coming in. still tired
with salty eyes.
you feel like it’s a dream,
a euphoria suffocating you
with chemicals. it’s good
to be home
even if you’re still trying
to convince yourself of that.
the same assholes with different
faces spew shit every time
they talk, and that’s all it is.
talk. shut up.
you’re all getting tossed around
in the wind,
there’s so much of it here.
it’s the same thing, the stale
gust of familiarity.
put up a sail, and maybe
you’ll actually go somewhere.