leave me to my devices

I've been quitting
I'll keep quitting

the timer is ringing but I can put it on mute now
She speaks up to remind me what I already know
it comes in text, it comes in shame, it comes in the color brown
I am applying to so many schools, but one I'm chasing after
It seems easier to way, to focus, to throw in all into the air
papers flying, papers getting stomped on, purposeful papers, papers I wanted to be read
felt inside your molars makes me wince, not the chalkboard shiver, but similar
I want to go back to the womb, it was warm there, I recently read about introvert parents with an extrovert child, the fetus now a being crying in upset over their parent's distraction
remember when someone told you, "life does not revolve around you."
this child must know that, but the feeling they get when it does, it better than admitting, better than defeat.

I'm reading a book that makes me feel warm, by Joyce, everything feels thick, like the morning milk my childish mind refused to drink, funny how this book makes me tired, I feel like I'm in jury duty, but it's actually interesting, but all voices are monotone, and I must trick myself into liking this. How many times have you tricked yourself into liking this? Cult is a not a curse word, but it has always felt like one. If I said it in my household, they might call the doctor, or whisper it to blood across states, in greasy finger-printed wire-less telephones.

Is quitting writing like this?
<person one says they can only write for them-self, they feel no need to share with others>
<person two says I understand, says but I have to write for others, or else what am I living for>
<person three notices both, but says they recently got into Columbia for a P.H.D in Literature>

I guess it's time to start making sense, to start being rational about all of this,