Train Kept Rollin'

So you meet a girl. She seems sweet enough. A little simple perhaps, but pretty and honest. You follow her down, you do for her. You lose her and get her back a time or three, then you start to wonder: What's beneath the vapid smile and pale blue eyes? Where does she go when she's not with you? Who is that speaking to her when your back is turned? She tells you not to worry, she loves you. She wants your children. She wants you and no one else. She leaves you for someone else. That, little fool, should be the red flag that turns you from her faithlessness forever. Months later, she calls you. You know what it's about. You've been waiting for it. Hoping for it, if truth be told. Praying that you will hear her voice again, that little liar who led you down to the very bottom and left you there. She calls, and you let her come. You take her back, even though you know that as she lays with you she is being unfaithful to another. Another like you, who does not deserve it. You take her, and you know she'll do it again. You tell her it will not be the same. Never as it was before. You lie to yourself as you say that you will not love her again. And of course it happens. You fall, and by the time you land at the bottom of the pit she's gone. Gone riding a dick train from Reno to Auburn and who knows where else. The only problem is she boarded that train with one foot on your platform. The dick train is filthy. So filthy in fact that before she's leapt clear there is already a mess on the ground at her feet. The ground is you. Dig? She lets those filthy boys throw a fuck into her whenever they want, and all the time she's looking over her shoulder telling you you're dishonest, you're a liar, you're the one who's cheating. Only natural. A liar sees lies in every direction, every passing face. She fucks him even as she cries out to you for help and attention. You know it, so you leave her. But it's not easy to forget, especially when she's left you with a permanent reminder.

15th Night

There's nothing to talk about yet. There's plenty to say, and I'll probably say almost all of it, but there's nothing to talk about. Not just yet. Two weeks in this place and nothing to show but a milk crate full of dirty socks and a guilty conscience. That and a patience that grows shorter with each passing day. I cannot be here and do nothing. That kind of time is what I wasted back home. Funny how I would rather work now than do anything else.
This place is a mess.