can we as a people move past bloody knuckles and bruised mirrors
scraped up knees and indents on our arms
with lines running from a blush packed nose
at how distant we feel
at how i can feel every ounce of skin on me
and yet none at all
at how from time to time i realize i am me
that i always have been
and i think about how we break our knees with glass shards from photo frames
that we are such a interesting people
with our knack for dissociation
and lust for corrupted archetypes to love
that we sit there on tub floors
with shower knobs turned to the high heat of hell
and just feel it
because we struggle to feel at all
a note: today i wanted to be in love. for the pure fact that i wanted to be able to say in my dissociation "they were in love." i wanted the high that it comes with or the high ive been mislead to see as more than just a hyperbole. sentient attempts are something im not fond of. but today, today i wanted to be in love. and i am not. and i have never been.
