bukowski taught me to let go of feelings
except
to also feel as much as you can.
I, however, cannot help but do what I've been taught.

only to my demise.
I'm going to keep ******* up, but I'm too afraid to be alone.
I feel alone, but know certain decisions will leave me completely alone
..in the heart.
I know I don't make sense but I'm trying really hard to explain.

..earlier today, after crying, I went into the kitchen with intentions
of conversation about what's been eating me, there were tools of pain
which I placed upon my flesh,
I didn't break through it.
I wanted to bleed
but it wasn't worth it.

what does that say?

perhaps I'm growing
perhaps it's not enough

I'm not sure why, but my heart is a wrench
and although it's a tool, I can't seem to find how to use it.