I Want What I Don’t Even Want But I Want It


I couldn’t have counted on half th­ese new pri­or­i­ties:

good light­ing, the idea of in­fused wa­ter, a friend who can talk to my house plants. Who knew jeal­ousy

would come around so of­ten, so bor­ing. All day look­ing at pho­tos, want­ing shit I know I don’t even want. But also know­ing someday,

some­one else is go­ing to touch you and my left lung will col­lapse, or some­thing. It’s the stu­pid­est thing

I’ve ever heard my own brain say. But I still said it. I mean, when I think about my sup­port sys­tem now I also count the dish­washer,

dear god. You can turn a lot of care­giv­ing to­ward a house. Bad, bad jeal­ous logic. Like if I slowly crush

all th­ese bits of mas­cara, high­lighter, motes of pressed pow­der into the car­pet, I know it will truly be­long to me. Lit­tle com­pe­ti­tions.

I’m go­ing to win, me and my one func­tion­ing lung, no mat­ter who lives here the long­est.

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