confetti, into the wind

 

I’m so tired of giving in.
I feel like it might be a sin at this point, and I’m tired of the disjointed way I open my mouth to defend…
and nothing comes out since I retreat and give in.

I’m so tired of sitting at this table, staring at this plate.
It’s piled high with mocking phrases and a side of under-cooked misunderstandings, and ain’t it grand how unappealing it feels to feel unappealing and…

meanwhile I’m just tired of giving in.
My usual spin on discomfort is to offer hope and optimism and throw confetti into the wind.
I’d love to make you smile now but it’s not the state I’m in.

I’m just tired of giving in.
Here I go, again.
Staring out the window at delectable stars and the moon and only sometimes making a spectacle of my desire to set fire to this disruptive cocoon because its not where I want to be.
On a scale of one to ten, I’m at eleven at being tired of giving in.