...the last straw

In that picture of me, I'm 15, but that's not exactly me; that's someone else who looks like me, but it isn't me and I'm just standing behind her telling her what to do with her lips, with her eyes - only so that she will look like me to someone else who doesn't know me very well
and my God,
do I look different with my eyes wide open and my mouth tinted that color and my head tilted in that direction
and my God,
I am not that girl anymore
and my God,
I wasn't even 15 then - I was 14, turning 15 on the 23rd but it was the 10th, and then I turned 15
and my God,
just imagine when I'm 25.
Who
will
I
be
then?

I know what it feels like to wait
to kill minutes
to waste hours
to write songs that no one listens to
to sing someone else's and pretend I was that brilliant at 19.

I know what it feels like.

I know something.
And
I did something today, and ate something, and drank something, and smoked something and thought something but the sum of these things amounts to almost nothing, and the sum of these things generally amounts to something involving you, and the sum of these things amounts to more than I'm willing to confess
and the words I say now mean even less than the words that fly out of your mouth
in that post-coital state of ecstasy, when "are you comfortable?" means exactly what it means and exactly what it doesn't mean, when you realize after it's finished just how fucking void you are, when the feeling of feelings is nothing short of a fucked up miracle on a street called Elm, not 34th -
but I digress.
The trees outside are changing colors. I'm changing colors. I've watched you change colors. I refuse to sleep anywhere else besides my own goddamned bed, thankyouverymuch,
but I digress.
I saw an entire house lift itself off the street and fly away without a sound. Birds - they do this, too. Humans try to do this, but we can't fucking fly. We're a bunch of genius, bipedal fucking monkeys.
But I digress.
                   No I don't.
                                Is this how people talk in Russian novels?
I don't care how they talk,
but I digress.
I do.

The day goes as follows:
it drags its heels.
The night shall go as follows:
a cigarette. lightswitch. footseps. bedcover. my goddamned bed. my goddamned covers. my goddamned body.
The week shall go as follows:
waiting to burst, like a pregnant cloud, or a pregnant person, or something pregnant.
The world goes as follows:
its a fucking mess, but your hair is perfect
and I guess that simply means everything is relative,
always relative,
                        never absolute.
The world is a fucking mess, but I paint my face every morning - something shy of flawless,
and I guess that simply means everything is a lie and everyone is a liar, then, so what the
fuck
       does that make
                               you?

Listen, I just had to tell you I wrote
five
fucking
poems
this month.

five.

Can you fucking belive it?
five
goddamned
poems
and you're in every single one of them, asshole

Listen, I just need to remind you that you can come back to this -
quote the exact line where I take part in the indignancy of human reaction.
It's here.
This is me, reacting.
This is me, indignant.  
This is me, cigarette in hand, Turner on my lips, Danielewski on my mind.
This is me, without a last straw
because there is no such thing as "the last straw" when everything is made of fucking hay.