shoulda known, for there was a notable repeat.
toothache in january, toothache in july. in january, i've had you. in july, i am alone. painkillers dulled nothing, even the pain that they are supposed to dull.
the body lies in the snippets of unfinished conversations. the body lies between "i love you" and "i'm sorry",
i left it in the night and it still comes looking for me, knocking at the door, sitting in my bed.
i loved you and i killed you, in this poem and when i left you. this is where the body lies, and it's heavy with guilt.
it means nothing anymore if the poet said "i lost a friend". the poet is hollow. it remains to be seen if this is because of august or if the poet has always been empty. august is a rampage. the poet sleeps in the middle of the day and dreams of angry things, the poet sleeps in the middle of the day and dreams of a place where everything is kinder.
and there's nothing biblical about not being able to sleep, nothing remotely angelic or holy, but now it's just a ghost. now it's just a ghost (my own brain) pinning me down with all its might, teeth on my neck. the twist to this story is that i wanted it, sometimes. the twist to this story is that i wish it was a real monster, so it could end all of this real quick.
love as an action love as a choice love as something u cultivate and tend to is the best thing in the world and it's at the absolute centre of my life.
i've swallowed the sun
and all that's left of you
all the hymns
have come undone.
everything is getting worse, as if it was never better in the first place
YOU ARE READING
WISDOM TEETH
Poetrywe want a meaning where there isn't one (A/N - SOME PARTS ARE BEING REWRITTEN)
