Externalities. I know them well. They're everything scoring is not.
The paint peeling from the base of everything in my flat. Kipple, lurking in the corners, hand in hand with entropy dragging me down.
The dishes piling exuding grease as takeaway cartons get added to the mix.
Dealing with the ATO by lodging a friend's tax return and ignoring mine.
Dealing with Simone's absence by doing nothing every night.
"I want to hear you say, it shouldn't be this way"
Lyrics taking on meaning where before only melody lurked.
Externalities are beautiful sometimes, like my nephew, and what he does for those around him through just existing. My mum telling me sad tales of suicides, perhaps trying to reach out and say "don't you dare"
**** after shower
On being asked why, at 35, I am still childless.
The other person in the room smiles and says
"He doesn't want to give up partying"
And I smile in return, crookedly,
because
I never knew how to party nor understood why
one would do it.
Rather than not wanting to give up something,
I like to think, but not say out loud
"I compare my situation to that of the trapped office worker
on the roof of the blazing skyscraper,
peering down at the hard asphalt,
offering release from the creeping orange hunger,
waiting waiting for the phutt phutt phutt clearing the black
smoke,
rescue
snatched from the maws!
Only there is no skyscraper, just me
on the couch
in my flat
And there is no fire,
just a syringe jacked back promising something
i remember not what
And there is no chopper sweeping in,
just a decision in my head to be made.
So I think these things upon being asked why at 35 I am childless
but the crooked grin will suffice
to stifle further conversation.