Red pill, blue pill, blue pill, black pill. Blonde Sundays and Taro ice cream on the day I turn Thirty Seven. The very pinnacle of ambivalence. Eveningtime naps that string me out across pillow promises. I scrutinize the man in the mirror, under unforgiving fluorescent lights. I'm both a child in grown-up clothing, and an immature, middle-aged man. My lover fantasizes about rock stars while I'm atop her. Alpha widow, or beta pretender. Maybe both. But the cracks in the glass aren't forthcoming.
4:43 p.m. - 2018-02-12
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