Monday, May 15, 2017

The Write-In

If I wrote down that there were things I could do to myself,
you would go and say that I would do them,
and that made no sense,
it meant you were unable to suspend disbelief,
or the other way around,
or at the least,
that you misunderstood everything about me from the get go,

and if I pushed my cuticles back,
you would think that was progress,
from back in the day,
when I was biting them six ways from Sunday,
until I got to the bloody root,

but if I wrote these things down,
I would have to talk you through them,
and down of the proverbial ledge,

and all of that sounded exhausting to me,
just fucking exhausting---

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