the clock on the wall
stares at me,
three desks away.
it tilts its heads
as if it asks me
"what are you doing here?"
the truth is,
i don't know.
i mean, i know why i'm in this classroom,
but why am i here in this life?
it could be so different,
if i tried the slightest.
but i feel like a victorian child
who's been lying on their deathbed
from the second they were born.
at the same time i need to try,
i don't even want to.
this is comfortable, this cycle i'm in.
it's predictable.
it doesn't stop me from getting hurt,
but at least this hurt is also part of the cycle; expectable.
stop staring at me.
i'm nothing good to look at.
don't tilt your heads and tire yourself;
i know what you're saying
but i can't bring myself to listen.
©rey_
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