depression

The crackle of clumsiness

As I attempt to communicate

While drunk as Boris Yeltsin

And only end up freaking women out

And being that creepy guy

That incel waste of space exuding desperation

When I was just trying to be friendly

And not trying

To get into their pants

Or at least trying not to think about it

Or look like I was thinking about it

After the first rejection

Comes the second

And that’s okay

It’s after the hundredth rejection in a row

When not even looking for anything sexual

That the depression really sets in

Like a cancer of the brain

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