it feels like a cruelly sick sense of humor, a twisted joke and i’m the punchline. how does one explain the irony, the contradiction of running from you yet chasing after you all at once? i’m chasing down your memory and the what ifs like malt liquor, it burns my throat and i mistake it for your hands only for the taste to settle in and i push ******* down my throat because i need to purge you out but i should have known its not like that, you arent food, but i’ll try anyways because your residue is haunting me but i can’t help but keep visiting your grave.