You weren't lonely the day before
You haven't cried in a week, really,
and haven't drank in the same amount of time
It could be because you've bought a plane ticket
to somewhere even if you never get anywhere
This ticket, it's a farce no
You might as well admit now
It's all bullshit
you not being lonely
Inside of you,
loneliness echos from cell to skin to being
It bounces off each other
Accumulating
before exploding into words as this
you are a lonely soul
empty and hallow like a whore's cavity
Your ex lover, the one who repulses you
the way you repel him
The one who told you frankly how sick you make him
has disappeared
Once again or for good you find it hard to judge now
In a week you might crawl back to
his peach flavoured room heavy with poverty and leftover sex
In a week you might be smug
you haven't crawled back
yet
The ticket isn't really a ticket
you call it your last resort
to which your best friend corrected you have a choice
and you would come back eventually, and that
is
the last card
