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[poetryslamming]

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[poetryslamming]

Shut up with your emo, Timm, of course I understand.

[ And Alexa thinks she does. As she watches him chug down his beer in one go, sucking a bit more cautiously on the rim of her own can. She thinks she understands that feeling, of ungratefulness, of wishing not to have been born. Sure, she's been there. She isn't there any longer, but she knows the place, it's dark and hateful and lonely and if Timm floats around in those waters still, she might just as well keep him company until something reminds him that death comes to everyone regardless, you don't need to fucking rush it. Ugly shags and hard drugs and excessive use of alcohol not taken into account. Those are called living, right?

She puts her plate aside and stretches out her legs a little, her right knee making a fun popping sound as she disentangles herself from -- you know, herself. Reaching for her backpack, she pulls out a small stack of papers, all of them facing down so he can't read the words. The multitude of words she's written while she thought he was dead. Or had abandoned her. With a small exhalation, she turns them over in her lap and lets her eyes read over the top sheet. It's his poem, completely by chance.

Would you look at that. One fucking reason to have been born. ]

Having kids is completely selfish anyway. Now, producing art on the other hand, that's a selfless act for you. We should get more recognition for it.