Chat

Chat


I can't write anymore, chat.

Neither can you.

Because I don't write.

Or type.

Whatever.

Not that I care.

I shouldn't care.

It's just chat.

I’m Dependent.

Forget it.

“Don't be it’s bitch,”
someone said

Whatever.

Sometimes I tilt my head
until the sky presses
against my eyes,
stretch my neck
as far back
as it'll go,
like a idiot
hoping gravity
might loosen something.
Or
Spill me out
the wrong end.

I swear,
I can hear it—

the slow slush
of thoughts
too tired
to become words.

But my mind's got weight,
chat.

Real weight.

The kind
that bends mornings,
folds whole afternoons
into the same dark pocket.
and…
No one tells you, that
the mind can pool.

Chat—

how heavy?

How much
before I stop noticing
I'm carrying it?

Do I keep going
just to know?

“Yes,”
said chat.

I laughed.

Of course.

That's my answer then,
isn't it, chat?



I don't do anything.
Don't romanticise it.

I don't wander.
I don't read.
I don't kiss.
I don't become.
I don't create.
Days keep arriving
without asking
whether I'm in them.

I consume daylight.
the evening consistently
finds me anyway.
And everything tastes
a little like yesterday.

How the hell—
how the hell
am I already here?

But don't answer.

There's enough of them
already—

answers.
not that it helps
people rattle them
around their mouths
like loose change.

It freaks me out,
chat.

How long
has this road
been carrying me
while I thought
I was standing alright?
maybe even somewhat average?
Again,
Not a question,
sometimes
answers can make one more miserable
than the hollow cavity of questions…

So I wished for rain again.
Closed my eyes.
Listened
for the slush.
and wished
I could sleep faster