I can't stand this make-up on my face.
I can't stand this fuzzy pink carpet.
I can't stand the 405.
I can't stand the lights,
the air,
the color of the sky.
I can't stand my hands, the black polish on my nails.
I can't stand the grass, the ants. The smell of the cigarettes on my sweater- more accurately Your sweater.
I can't stand the magic foam insert on top of my shitty mattress.
I can't stand the termites slowly eating away at the wooden walls of my home. My house. Four walls that could do without
my inhabitance. I can't.
I can't stand the spin in my head.
The thoughts and the feelings spinning around, but my hands don't move, the picture doesn't move.
I can't stand Purell, or electronics.
I can't stand the weather.
I can't stand you dancing. I hate your dancing.
I can't stand that I've made promises I'd rather not keep.
I can't stand the buildings.
I can't stand the grass, the ants, the dirt, the worms.
Infesting the roots beneath my feet.
I can't stand the english language.
I just can't face the morning light.
"So glad to meet you, Angeles."