six years,
in the most pathetic, tangential way,
is guilt. is shame. is vivid hate.
burning the belly of my metatarsals
each second succinctly souring the next
each step, walking against the tide of an ocean of barbed twine
teeth bared, claws bitten like a captor’s hand
smiling like this is all reason to keep going.
a bravery owed, debted to the ones who found out about you.
what cannot kill me can only make me wish it had,
letting my lungs collapse against a fist;
much easier a burden after all.
a tangible foci for the pointed vile thoughts.
can’t blame yourself for not knowing better when the blame is a man in his early thirties,
standing in the line in front of you,
hair a cascade of spilled oil,
smile believable, tooth crooked forwards.
tall, taller than you’d thought,
hands softer than I’d said,
kind words forming from lips so often pressed against mine,
hymns, promises, lies.
hate. shame. guilt.
•
six years,
six years,
six years,
how
can my body,
(though knowing
in every way
it has
betrayed
me
before)
still find ways
to love
you?
memory
is warm,
I know,
I know,
I should
know better.
I should
know better.
I should fucking
know better
after all of this.
all of this.
fuck you.
fuck you.
I don’t
know
how
to
do
this.
I miss
you.
•
01/20/2025
•
What the fuck is wrong with me? Rhetorical.
Tofu 