“You got some grass to cut”

In the finite of universes I've encountered,

the pain of going through meaningless labour like this one,

sends the most shivers down my rack.

Sure, I'm not one to be down to earth with describing my struggles, and needless to say I'm neither one to say things as is. What would be the fun in that? I scuffed, as I turn on my office chair with escalating speeds. A wrong move will chop my head off. The wall, which for some reason had been sharpened to perfection, was an tedious and forever obstacle in my wish of gaining lightspeed. A shame.

It was a shame too that grass needed to be cut today. And tomorrow, and the day after, and after. Without you.

I shook my head. No. I don't need to dwell on this. I buried my face into my fists, clenching hold onto my flesh like cats onto curtains. You have been through this.

Yes, it happened not so long ago.

Because even if relations between someone should be giving,

the one we shared was none but teeth,

goosebumps,

and heck of a lot of headaches.

You brought this upon me.

But your personality-

fuck, it was like a venus flytrap.

Welcoming, special, beautiful -

but your true nature revolved around it.

Your fangs, your teeth, your poison.

I'm not even sure if I knew the real you.

Was that just a fake too?

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

I crawl into my embrace, hugging onto me, as if anything could tear my body from it's seams. This is what you get for jumping into it again. I tell myself. This is what I get for being stupid.

But I couldn't help it. Because you stole a part of me.

You used me like a kitchen-cloth.

I didn't even get anything in return. I didn't receive the amount of work I put into you back, nor any redeemable awards. "Thank you," "I appreciate you," "You're one of the best," was all I got.

But where's the action? What are we without our words? Words are just seemingly interconnected pieces of sounds, and sounds put into meaning and then put into coherent sentences of meanings. "But what the fuck are you?" I whisper to myself, trying to surpress the stone in my throat.

All I got- no. All I needed was for you to pay me. Emotional labour, dude. It's no joke.

I let hold of myself, with the stone falling to my stomach. I sigh, nodding. Yes. It's no longer a issue. Because you're gone.

Because I left.

Because you're no longer here.

Standing, my legs wobble away. Right, the chair. I grin, brushing away some see-through dust on my cheeks. Idiot. I think.

You got some grass to cut.