I scrub my dishes well, I clean up every little bit.
I make sure to wash my hands in the sink
so they can say “at least he has that virtue.”

I try harder these days to speak with my “heart”
by not clearing the saliva in my throat.
Thoughts come easier then.
Girls look longer when
I play the Ed Sheeran,
but they can go FUCK themselves.
And I keep scrubbing the fucking mugs.

And I’m terrified of Nurse Ratched
in OCD, germaphobe roommate form.
And I taste soap in my coffee the next day
and soon enough I’ll be coughing up bubbles one way
or another.

"I’m forever blowing bubbles… ”
Buzzwords floating in the sky,
and no tender hands or words or songs,
could hide the hatred in his eyes.

“Would you like to carry the coffin, Eric?”
And though my name is Evan, I should understand he means me.
‘So many boys in the family,’
after all.
But I don’t answer the call.

An ear-ringing silence as I feel their eyes.
‘Say my name right, why don’t you?’ I want to say,
but I eventually take the cold, gold handle.
"I didn’t know. I mean I wasn’t absolutely sure if he meant me…" I told my mom later.
Still so selfish, even though I sob at the funeral like a baby.

These deaths always make me so sad, and I don’t know why.
I just wish I wasn’t the only one that would cry.
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