It’s 8:02 PM on a Sunday.

And I can’t help but wonder
if anyone would miss me if I didn’t
wake up tomorrow morning.

when will I be enough for you

when will I be enough for you

when will I be enough for you

wicked draining selfish twisted ***** disgusting pathetic shameful lazy ungrateful
manipulative selfish ***** you’re mind is twisted evil no one wants you here delusional you’re so bipolar pig you need help man clingy afraid to be alone in a room with her sadness ******* ******* irresponsible you’re so borderline you’re so so I’m sorry I have to cancel [again] inconvenient I “care” about you wicked we “love” you imposition I don’t want to see you hurting selfish ***** it breaks my heart to see you so sad just another body that takes up space space space

Maybe if I push my sadness down
deep enough, it won’t be able to reach me anymore.

When she was sad,
she was very sad indeed.

When she was lonely,
she was horrid.

To say your name is a coincidence
would be a trivialization. A poet's name
is never just a name; it is more than a
conglomerate of letters.

A poet's name is an oracular
tool; and with a name like
Sexton, it is no surprise to me
that you dug your own grave.