"You Take Me Out" (Prose)

Really fun couple of paragraphs I wrote back during a depressive couple of weeks in the fall. I'm okay, I promise.

You Take Me Out

Okay, so I know it’s desperation sinking in, not any genuine sort of pull. Does that make my breathing any less painful? Really? Tears cool my contacts and slip down to salt my cheeks. I have no idea why I’m sitting here, waiting like this.

I have a book. I could read. I still have some time left of my youth to be that pretty intellectual with her book and coffee, waiting for the approach. They’re too cool for what I am, though, and my dark thoughts and twists are actually a genuine malignance. I could get someone to put their...thing in me, sure, but it’ll only get lonelier once they shrug their pants back on and walk out the room.

I think my finger is about to rot off. I think that mole gets darker every day and I debate whether or not it counts as a suicide to just ignore it. I think, I wait, I sit. Not much else left to do for a fat-faced hysteric.

Walk by, say hi. I'm all that's left of me.