[ It's just another place to live ]

It's just another place to live where
the sound of the rain outside makes you feel hopeless
and you have to tell yourself that waking up
isn't the worst thing that could happen.
Every second strains
under the weight of not remembering - 
the smell of Newports and exhaust
in a car on a summer day,
how you love and hate the sunrise
at exactly the same time,
all those empty intersections
whispering like ghosts,
and the dead who haunt your lists
of calls you didn't take.
Everything inside you feels misplaced.
Someone's always rearranging
the layout of your heart
until you can't remember how you got those scars.
So you're spending your nights digging
through those boxes labeled Misery
and hoping you'll find something else inside,
because the only thing you want
is to sell or trade your past mistakes,
and for something to be different in you
this time.

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