A piece from the Stoner Monologues.
You’re so coy with your elegant attitude and demure ways, I can tell when you’re angry by the polite way your eyelashes fumble together, and how your voice gets a curl around the edges, as if your every sentence is lined in perfectly-coiled ribbon. You like to examine me when I’m not awake and you’ve added and subtracted me like math inside your wiry intelligent mind. You clear your thoughts like clouds in a wind when you’ve lost solace, you lay yourself blankly and furiously before me, sheer white paper, the words left unspoken in the pen. And you leave me, rarely physically, always mentally, behind in the room you were last standing in, alone like an actor before an audience of empty chairs.
I fumble my sentences and speak clear sad prose like a poem, but you don’t adhere and I miss you when you go. And foolishly, always welcome you and your painted duck back, willingly, and some nights I wonder who really is the lamb.
You slaughter me with your credibility.
