to feel so intensely, and know that even as i fall once more into poisonous solitude, the very people i draw away from feel the same. to know that it must be true, because i am not sure how to continue if it isn't, if i truly am the only one out there. to put stupid thoughts onto a platform i cannot trust, if only to know that the neurons of another being will transmit these words, sets of lines and curves, into their brain, and these words, my words, no matter how stupid i'll think them later, will exist in someone else's mind. to feel release, even when anxiety is a product alongside it. to bare myself.
YOU ARE READING
inaurata lingua
Poesiebook two. stars pour from a golden mouth ink drips from a bleeding tongue
