original date of publication: july 2023
I want to describe to you the way I feel, but I don't know emotions any better than you. I know how they feel in my body. I know what you've done is torturous.
There's a burning in my cheeks that isn't a flame, it's a slow, tumultuous acid, so loud in my veins, so quiet in my brain
There's a weight in my bones that holds me fast to the floor, anchors me, weighs me down, keeps me from moving, keeps me still, keeps me silent
There's an ache in my joints, sickly yellow, stale air squeezing out with every movement I make; I am ill with possibility and it rots between my fingers
There's a thousand needles in my stomach, poking holes, bleeding out into my body, sharp pins and sharper pain, a kind of pain not breaking or crushing but tearing apart
You've hit me with an iron bar, a baseball bat to my ribs, a car run me over, a plague in my lungs
The flowers grew out and left dirt behind them
It turns out that I'm still sick after all of this
The sickness was inside of me and you were never the cure
.
.
.
... there's no answer to the melancholy
YOU ARE READING
Assorted Poetry
PoetryI had a vent account on Poetizer, but it went paid, so I had to save the poems here. They're not particularly effortful, just vomited prose, but I had nothing else to do with them. They may be added to, or not. Largely not too graphic, but there is...
