It's a Thursday night and I don't owe any homework to anybody. It's a Thursday night and tomorrow is Good Friday so I can afford to cry and scream and loosen the stops I've kept on my feelings. Just a little. Then wipe it off by tomorrow so I can do a chinese project and goof off and try pretending the thought of you doesn't bring to mind some form of sadness to the surface, laced with just a bit of anger, dusted with a sprinkling of disappointment. 

Wipe it clean, damn it. Make the doodles you've left on my SS powerpack go back to hands that wrought them, your damned pale hands with the bitten fingernails. Take back the flowers that still hang over my bed because I can't bear to see them go, leaving an empty corner behind. Scrub yourself from my dreams, because I don't fucking know, man.

I hope you hate me. I hope your friends hate me and the rose glow of our shared memories turn green, green as bitter can be. It'd be easier, really. You probably already do. I hope you tell your future girlfriends about me, that asshat you used to be with, who can't even stop using the word "I" long enough to monologue properly, who couldn't care in the right way.

Wish because I can't do, hope because I can't see and hate because I can't feel properly. Nope, not me.

Sigh. 

A relief then.