these phone calls go on for hours
the transfer music as maddening
as the frustration hiding behind every cheery voice.
and I chafe
against every surface of the world
and I fester
like an open sore
with a number in my bank account that makes me weep.
with a number in my bank account that makes me weep.
"thanks for your time," she says
and I see her in my mind, with fangs overhanging a plump lip
sucking the life out of me.
But in the end, it will be the bitterness that kills my heart,
not the vampires organizing my health insurance paperwork.
not the vampires organizing my health insurance paperwork.
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