“They don’t do it the way they used to,” I mutter to myself
I rip the bedsheets into uneven halves
Tearing each thread with everything I have left
But this is only in my head, of course
For I am too mild for anger
Yet too harsh for joy
I’m actually at the edge of my bed
And I don’t want to be the mess I always am
I still can’t get it right
I still can’t crack the code
I still don’t do it the way I used to
I never could, anyways
But this is only in my head, darling
Of course it is.