i'm not ready for the cold yet
everything in the kitchen had a face, and i didn’t want to leave because my hair was still wet and it was supposed to rain, but the air in the house was stifling, and i knew i needed to go somewhere—be somewhere. why do i keep denying that i feel like crumbling and just want to stay asleep? why do i keep denying myself the safety and guilty ecstasy of self-pity and defeat even as it claws ceaselessly on my front step? why don’t i just choose sadness? i’ve never known anyone to be so dissatisfied with contentment. i’m going to the movie store. i’ll hole myself up in hollywood. and in how i finally felt warm that night, but i don’t think i’ll ever tell him because i don’t want to shake things up at home. and in the quirky realization that i’m one of those people who finds that being wanted for real gets old really fast, like the kids who refuse to do homework and still ace every exam, always desperate for a real challenge. someone, please, just tell me i’m not good enough.