It’s not it
It’s the feeling
would you help me, stop, would you help me, stop, would you help me, stop, open parenthesis every album I hear makes me want more close parenthesis, stop

can you feel it too or am I being melodramatic
hurt is relative like action/reaction
would you feel this and tell me it’s normal or busted or have you been hurt so much more like I know you have and think who is this grief thief who does he think he is

can bag drops little dissolvable tablets under the tongue that do nothing really just give it to me even though I say no just enable me to imbibe and we’ll drive or walk or crawl

back then when I thought we were really kind of happy I gave you some and you wanted more but there was no more but I want that now or something better and older

perhaps that arcane therapy reminiscent of lead oxide or mercury drops that used to come in brown glass or ceramic bottles to help people who were hurt but now it looks like dusty mud in a rizla paper from a man in a flash motor saying twenty yea and I say nah thirty and he corners one more and it’s bigger and I try to hide my unadulterated glee at the prospect this brings

I crave and I travel and have come around in a circle

I am now more worthful but where is my mind really to go but to go where it wants to go but to no avail and I am glad but sorely disappointed now I am away

I have looked at the sea for hours before
I have left wanting to be liquid and fluid and free from any

you hate it and I love you and you might not hate me but you don’t like me so very much as you did before and now certain nothings might creep in to that slim periphery that I tapered off because I wanted to

now just give in because why not

I never see you
I never see anyone

why won’t everyone just leave me alone all the time except you when you have something that I want you to say to me or even not but make it sincere because it doesn’t work the other way

in case I died I wrote a brief note and you were in it and even though I’m wearing Japanese robes I will never eviscerate myself

I ’d rather destroy these dutty innards from inside out than bear their fresh untainted glistening gore spilling out abdominal on the rug to prove my honour through a death because what is honour and what is a death

I die each time anyway


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Mo H-L

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English Literature and Creative Writing graduate. Male. Human. Alive.
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Taper short poem

Did you not hear the fireworks last night when you kissed me? could you not taste the explosion? oh where was your spark? was it me? Did my teeth not dig deep enough into your collar bones? Did my hands