last night, i
sent a wish to the moon, whose
free-spinnin' light cut ochre
circles around pallid circles
through the fractured cloudlines,
and was always, always aware
of the cold, calm, and splintered
heaviness inside me. little voice,
tied around some fingers, leaching
into the streams of my very own thought.
humming: why do i continue to idle?
yes, i play waiting games. no
small question why. those modes are
concrete and understood. but why, then
do these games revolve around filling
my head with poison, when preservation
matters, now - now that i don't foresee
a continual blankness in meaning, anymore?

i am sick of these poisons. i am sick
of these postures. same cycles of words.
i am sick of knowing that i am full well
in control but still give in for the sake
of.. what, habituation? for some mutually-
assured self-destruction? worst of it all
is watching everyone you try to love
crumple up in their own weaknesses, by
each other's hand.

do you just let go of what won't be fixed?
do i just go into hiding,
watch it all slough itself away?
even if it'd hurt that much more?

of course, i stood, queasy, at the riverside,
and could not, for the life of me, read straight
the lines in my gut. lord knows,
lord know, what delusion i sank into,
for my own grand mid-day consolations.

is it cowardice, or selfishness, to need to
save yourself first?