there is nothing poetic about pain;
there is no beauty in the ache of emptiness,
there is no loveliness in the moments before explosion.
there is no honor in loneliness.
there is only the desperation for it to end,
the craving for the last time you felt at peace
and the regret that you did not appreciate it at the time.
there is whole body anger and the repeated
demand of why. why this. why me. why now.
there is only headaches and endless tears
and that ungodliness of no one understanding -
the torrent of it will get better, and you'll get through it,
and nothing lasts for ever.
there is only the infinity of this particular destruction

and I cannot bear it.