Exhaustion consumes me, like the day-to-day grind of monotonous work
grinds me into wood pulp, the precursor to paper, the precursor to what
words may one day ideally be printed upon, but not yet, not now,
no, not now. Now I simply type into a void, or worse
avoid typing any words at all in fear of the truth exiting -
that horrible truth I'm not ever meant to talk about,
the one that haunts my nightmares, his hands inside...
blank pages, blank stares, it's not real - not real - not real...
When you love someone
this is okay anyway, right? to be touched is what people
yearn for, and I have family, someone loves me, I don't
need to be writing this. I don't know what my soul needs, except
Not what I've been given.
Blank is the expression when someone questions my future
As though any forward movement towards my goals is truly occurring.
As though I can think further ahead than my next meal
Animal that I am, as though the future is not bones
In an owl pellet, consumed and no longer
one creature completely but a monstrous mashup of many
My soul is a monstrous mash up of heartaches, hospitalizations, half-truths held hostage by
"We don't talk about that."
"Save that for therapy," the words no longer
Able to be spat out, instead swallowed.
ns 15.158.61.19da2
