At Least They're Committed

I’m severed from people who balance and support me, Lily keeps judging me, my timing is always off, we’re broke; my thoughts bounce loosely at my feet like porcelain beads from a necklace. Yes, porcelain, not pearls. Pearls are covetted clam spit, for which my thoughts bear no likeness, and are equated with wisdom, of which I have run dry. Instead I am colorful but fragile and broken. And obviously highly melodramatic. My middle three fingernails on my left hand have white spots from where I accidentally slammed them in the garage door. It’s kinda cool.