poetics, or whatever

veiled in irony, and out of existence.

silent, like a thread worm.

and not knowing why your knees are blue or why the words aren’t where you remember leaving them.

but those are trivial. those are decisions. quiet those.

they say that we fear what is unknown. I fear what might become known. I fear nostalgia. I fear how far feelings might compound, but not the inevitability of them defeating me.

I want to do as much good as I can. I want to impact as little as I can.

I am sick of being a challenge: sick with it. most days, I’d cut out part of my soul … if that was possible, and if it meant I’d be a little less intense.

I want to fade like a fucking ghost into nothing, just now.

if there was a God, I might pray for it.

please, God, take this back. please, another talent. please, another mistake. please, don’t be a fucker.

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