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Sundays Are Harder

I dreamed of you, you know?

It was just like the old days but I woke up feeling guilty.

Guilty because of how I feel now.

We were at a party, somewhere like what the lesbian bar used to be; loads of drugs, we shared a beer, kisses all over the place. My friends were there too, they were having a nice time. You pull over a bit of weed, make yourself a cigarette, I would look at you with disapproval, I still don't see your smoking with good eyes, it's like I can feel you being lost all over the smoke in each and every cigarette.

We would go to my house after the party. But not to neither of the apartments I had lived in for the past years. It was the house behind Nana's. My old bedroom but with a double bed in it. My mom was in the kitchen, yelling, cooking. You were in my bed, shirtless. Mom would scream in order to talk to me, I'd go there and have an argument with her, we'd cook something, and I'd go back to the bedroom.

You're eating Chinese food there. I start kissing your bellybutton, weirdly shaped, but beautiful to me, and wake up.

And I feel guilty, because I want you, you know? 

I feel bad because I think I want this past. I feel bad because it seems like I don't want myself. And there’s no art over here, just pain.