This poem is a place to purge my soul
of dark and sad and grievance old
tracing the timeline backward, away
to my life as a child, listless days
The men who won't have me
and the few who do
The hurting ache of physical roles
and the relief of finished holes
I dedicate this to a brother, half-awake
all the friends I've let go
for their little mistakes
and the hours every day I ran
while out of fuel through my ruined lands
For my inability to love or feel or wish
to the loser in my life who caused it
and my mother who feels the fault
and my skin that has scars self-inflicted
I have an ode to share with future self
wealth, health, and ache keeps you alive
it serves to remind
It is alright if you have already died