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 Dec 2017
Ben Kaw
I'M SORRY
YOU HELPED ME
IT DIDN'T HELP
I TOLD SOMEONE HOW I FELT
I GOT HELP
I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP ANYMORE.

SHOULDER THE BURDEN OF BEING MY SAVIOR NO LONGER.
NO ONE ALONE CAN BE BURDENED WITH THE TASK OF SAVING ME.

I'M SORRY.
I YELLED AT YOU.
I HIT MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A SPIRAL NOTEBOOK IN ANGER.
A SOCIAL FAUX-PAS.
YOU DON'T HAVE TO TEACH ME THIS IS WRONG.
I ALREADY KNOW.
I AM IMPULSIVE, NOT IGNORANT.

I ONLY PRETEND TO BE
BECAUSE I THINK
IT'S FUNNY
I LIKE YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE FUNNY
I LIKED TEXTING YOU
UNTIL YOU SAID
I TEXTED AS MUCH AS A LADY LOVER SHOULD

HOW CAN I HELP YOU
HOW CAN I MAKE YOU BETTER
PLEASE LET ME HELP YOU

I KNOW YOU ARE SUFFERING

I WANT TO MAKE IT RIGHT

JUST DON'T TELL ME
"Go away" OR "Leave me alone"
12/15/17

I'm still thinking about the boy from Rango and Don't Stick Your Fork In Gravy. Wrote this so I wouldn't try talking to him in person.
 Dec 2017
Ben Kaw
His dog was contained in an impenetrable tomb.
Twelve hexagonal stepping stones upon
A mound of dirt

ooo
oooo
ooo

I wanted to pray for her,
a dog I never met.
I had to repent
for the barking noises I made
earlier, before I knew.

All dogs go to heaven, but all people go to hell.

He didn't want to be reminded
of her passing
so I didn't warn him that I was coming.

At least he wasn't home.

The alive dog, Rango, was very friendly.
He sniffed and licked me,
his nose between my legs.
If only someone else would find me so fascinating.

I noted this out loud.
His mother laughed.
She was complicit in my intrusion of his son's privacy.

A nice boy
A sweet boy
A quiet boy
An anxious boy
He preferred the company of a few close friends
Friends that weren't me

Even though I was delirious,
I meant it when I said to this man
"If you were like the boy she described,
I would have fallen in love."
Recollection of an event on 12/6/17. Written 12/11/17.
 Dec 2017
Ben Kaw
Chewing and swallowing is a hassle.
I wish it weren't taboo to cut
open my stomach and insert the meal through the wound. Nothing would go to waste.

Mastication is unsightly. It rots your mind and teeth. It tears and mashes what you love into paste, leaving nothing but bones.

At least **** the marrow dry.

Would you eat something someone else spat out? You are food too. You are slathered in someone else's slime.

I try to slice away the mold that consumes him but the mold is all over. Even a little bit of mold on a treat like him is a sign that it's everywhere, that it's toxic, but I keep carving away, believing there is something that can be salvaged.
December 12, 2017

A prose poem about struggling to connect with a boy and wishing it were easier.

— The End —