Jan 8
Bittersweet to remember
The hands that held you
Before they beat and bludgeoned
You and the potential you once possessed
Cast off into the sinisterly sultry embrace of eager
Sharp-toothed
Thirsty mouths
Only to serve shadowy dead-end escapes
Perfectionist performers
Putting on unsatisfactory performances
For insatiable audiences
How could any of us stand to forgive each other?
Let alone
Ourselves
The hands that held you
Before they beat and bludgeoned
You and the potential you once possessed
Cast off into the sinisterly sultry embrace of eager
Sharp-toothed
Thirsty mouths
Only to serve shadowy dead-end escapes
Perfectionist performers
Putting on unsatisfactory performances
For insatiable audiences
How could any of us stand to forgive each other?
Let alone
Ourselves
Tonight my father is in the hospital for what might be a stroke—some disturbance in blood flow to the brain. I only feel cold and disconnected, my worries are almost entirely financial. Everyone around me gathers together biting their nails and pacing and praying. Stranded outside the anxious huddle, I play with my hands, unsure of what to do and where to put them. I think there's something genuinely wrong with me.
