There is nothing lonelier than an empty laundromat late at night
The sound of the machine whirring the way your head does
Or is it your stomach?
Who can tell anymore
So you decide to do laundry because you cannot sleep
The harsh fluorescent light reveals all
Like the stranger’s cum on your underwear from the one night stand you had the other night
Thought it’d make you feel better didn’t you?
Your ego had an appetite
But it only ate up a plate of emptiness
You fear you are losing your mind
Because you don’t know what you are doing
But you keep crying and crying and crying
Keep waking up each morning
Thinking it’ll stop
But it doesn’t
And your uncle says,
“Well you’ve tried everything else except for a higher power, except for God.”
And you say,
“I don’t believe in God.”
And then you feel an impending doom in your gut
Like food poisoning without the food
Writing poems in empty laundromats late at night
And drinking organic orange juice even though you’re broke
Because maybe that is where you go when you don’t know where else to
Because maybe that is where the quiet is
Because maybe that is your church


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