2 am toast

rob’s making toast at 2am in his kitchen
and i’m kind of confused
because i don’t know where i am.

we’re young and convulsing under the stars.
“what’s your story?” “tell me about yourself?”
“where’d you lose your virginity?”

they just wanna eat their toast for fuck’s sake
and i’m crying questions
to boys who feel weirded out by a curiosity

of mine that never dies, that never kills me.
oh i bruise up on the surfaces,
clench my jaw, wish i was the life on mars

that everybody was so desperate to discover,
won’t you be the first to discover me,
and not what’s in my underwear?

rob swallows the toast and i’m disjointed.
i’ve come round just so i can leave because i’m the kind of company
that wilts after 3 days of socialising,

my kind of humanity can’t be bothered
with this kind of humanity,
where we sit listening to The Who feeling a little dead post weekend.

i’ve been so weird this year.
so i drag myself back to my flat
and i’m kind of confused because,

i don’t know who i am.

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