To the morning
swirling a cup of coffee as
I sink into the couch, a tendril
of steam clawing it’s way free.
I am desperate.
I am
desperate. I
am desperate.
You can tell from my actions, by
the way I retreat from our bed
to the condolence
I find in that freshly brewed aroma
depressed
a woman of twenty
longing to have a purpose in life.
I am desperate.
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Make me signs, dammit.