Disengaged.

[Certain]

My friends are happier than me. So fucking magically complete.
We're on the same side of the fence, but their grass is always green.
I try grasping hold to last afloat, but tragically, I sink.
A practically obese 20-something still trying to grapple with his dreams.
Take a gasp and hold it deep. Release. Even smoke will fade.
And I've already choked away half my odds to procreate.
These bitches pose and wave with diamonds the size of herpes blisters.
Duck-faced, perfect picture. Raise your glass and burn your liver.
I'm fucking happy for them. Or at least I'll take my turn, deliver
the kind of worthless sermon heard in wedding toasts and bourbon whispers.
Never mind those nervous whimpers coming from the corner stool.
I'd rather be alone amid a hundred drunk and horny fools.
I breathe the muck and sordid gloom. Escape, a sunken, torn recluse.
Alone again, I stumble toward another sullen, poor excuse.
Alone again, I need to reprioritize.
But when I sleep I feel the horror slice deeper than reaper's sharpened scythe.
Awake. I keep one darkened eye on the pillow lying next to me.
It's empty. It's lonely. It's jealous.
I hide my empathy.