Sometime in May

Sickness sore muscles and my throat feels like utter shit.
Sticky purple cough syrup will taste vile. Sticky purple taste reminding me of grape Smirnoff, reminding me of my first time getting trashed, reminding me of ‘the ex’ and that car ride from hell. Or toward.
Tea will be better.

Purple was the color of dana’s minivan door, sliding shut with a click on the day she left for Eugene.
Cardboard boxes and boxes, till the door rolled shut.
‘Click’, not ‘Slam’.
Captured moments encased behind glass. Sure ain’t no sunshine in Seattle.

How do I get myself into positions like this? How the hell do I get out?
I feel like a fucking pretzel, except maybe less salty.

“Are you leaving already?”
“Yes, we have to get going”
Nowhere and no reason.

My room is becoming a junkyard.
….cleanliness is overrated anyway.