you loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. he tried to sweeten you, to water you down. so you left.
I am a millennial. Generation Y. Born between the birth of AIDS and 9/11, give or take. They call us the global generation. We are known for our entitlement and narcissism. Some say it’s because we’re the first generation where every kid gets a trophy just for showing up. Others think it’s because social media allows us to post every time we fart or have a sandwich for all the world to see. But it seems our one defining trait is a numbness to the world, an indifference to suffering.
Having strange, lucid dreams in which
you are the solution and I am the problem.
On both of my hands I can count all of
the things I have done wrong. The people
I have left. The phone calls that went
unanswered. Maybe I have a problem
owning up to things. Being an adult,
no one tells you how complicated it can
be. How people expect you to stock your
bathrooms full of fancy almond hand soap.
That your refrigerator must be full and
smell like clementines. That you will
want to stay in bed more times than you
will want to leave it. That the sun is not
here for us but that we can’t escape it.
That no one owes us anything. I lose
periods of time—days, weeks, sometimes
full months—the way my dad loses his
glasses, peppermints, this week’s grocery
list. I have this habit of going into Barnes
and Noble and pressing my nose flush up
against the blank pages of notebooks.
I think I just want a stranger to smell me
on their hands all day and not know why.
the people who make lyric videos on youtube are the backbone of this nation