There is something so sickly sweet about the mixture of lust and earnest interest in someone.
Someone who might not feel the same.
It tickles your tongue like sugar
and stings the roof of your mouth with a vinegar finish.
You can’t tell if you like it
if it just hurts.
You want to hold onto every
even when you are sipping air.
You want to believe it is all good, but the unrequited emotions bubble up.
More and more.
You seep out the edges, upset because this spill seemed preventable.
dripping in disappointment.
You won’t entertain accidents, even though that’s what it actually is.
Instead, you let it keep trickling down your throat, trying not to choke.
I giggle at graffiti.
The seemingly never-ending freight cars that greet me as I wait for my Metra into the city have quick tags, try-hard “artist” renderings of Pac-Man and the occasional “Fuck, I’m drunkkk.”
As I get closer to the city, “Society is fucked!” screams from a dented shed in red paint in scrawl similar to what is found in my reporter’s notebooks.
It’s funny to me, people using aerosol cans of paint to be heard. Not funny in the sense that it is stupid, just in the sense that they have just not nailed it yet.
They expect the can to cry out in protest, in rebellion, to whatever wrongs they feel, but all it is doing is releasing a quiet “whizzz” of air.
A sigh. We have a long way to go.