Shit show

That massive box of toilet paper’s arrived again. Is this supposed to be a metaphor for this shit show I’ve arranged for myself?

A giant box of 48 rolls to make room in my life for. And I still have about 15 remaining from the last.

I got a subscription when I was in a couple.

It didn’t seem quite so ridiculous then.

Now,

alone

it seems, at the very least

extravagant.

At worst, it’ll serve to remind me of the parcel of shit I’ve wrapped myself up in.

So now I stare between that,

and the window.

Box of future shits.

View of current shits.

It’s hard not to feel lonely

when staring out onto the park.

When your literal outlook is filled with couples and friends and barbecues and families

and

SO many

dogs shitting.

All the time.

When your outlook is you

at home alone

again.

Eating alone, sleeping alone.

With a giant box of bog roll

that eats so aggressively into your living space

you might assume it’s supposed to be there.

You might mistake it for furniture.

Maybe I’ll replace the sofa with it.

And I’ll sit atop my box of toilet paper

Looking out:

a window to what could have been.

Families, couples, friends,

barbecues,

dogs shitting.

I wonder how I will feel

or

who I’ll be

when it’s done.