there's something about Sunday's
that make you want to kill yourself
like Angela Chase
in My So-Called Life
like it's 1995 and teenage angst purchased from the Gap
is all the rage
It's nights like tonight
when the rain falls on the oak trees
and the dust covering every piece of paper
collecting in my room is somehow more noticeable
on a cloudy day
when there is nothing to do except build a fort in my room
with Ani, Tori, Alanis and Liz
blaring from my speakers
as I bang away keys frantically trying to pen my memoir
in a narcissistic frenzy
deluding myself into believing I actually have something important to share with the world
nights when safety and security is 868 miles away
and Kurt Cobain still stares at me from behind his shades
and I peer out from beneath my window frame and everything outside is tinged a faded gray
and I am reminded of all the many reasons why
I absolutely hate Sunday.
