Do we all fervidly despise my reeling feeling of burning tears? Shaky
hands grasp desperately for
what tore me apart; only in order
to have something.
Please; something. Here I am flat on my knees
and I’m feeling the
screams; they’re seething
against me, against the back of my rough throat.
Want to make sense of this? Want to make sense of what it’s meant to mean?
That tightening of my pulsating chest. The slice of the sharp air
refuses to rest and it makes me detest my own mind.
Detest my own thoughts. Detest my own
mind. I dream and I
run into the sun, the brightest one that could
Whirlwinds. Tornadoes. Deeper, more grotesque
images would suffice. And
could and should-
they would suffice; if only this
hatred didn’t suffocate me so.
burn away the years
Gasoline: re-igniting forever.
And I still have nothing.