I know I think the best
When surfing across the internet
Or scanning a page for class
Some forum
To shift my ******* towards,

Whether to impress, or to forget.
It’s all the same.
I do not laugh at the right time
And end up in breakdowns
When I’m confronted with the actor that is also me.

Call it fraudulence if you will,
It’s a means to ends of the perfect relationship
I’ve fictionalized in my head.

I’ve fallen in love with falling love
And get off to just holding hands and feeling wanted.

Does memory bless me the inspiration to write down in verse
Some alternative that proves, I know,
Useless
In the long run?

Are the psychologists right?
Am I destined to die by my own hand?
My own pen?
By cause of my own disposition?

Thoughts of suicide, depression, endless solipsism pervade
My little godless world.
Poetry solidifies it.

*******. ******* whose rejection is undeserving of my hatred
Whose own life is the object of my own stupid, adolescent, immature mode
Of healing, whose subjectivity, whose humanness
Is of its own design and accord—I do not own you
You are as you are: not mine, but your own.

And I hate you because you do not oblige me as I think you should
You do as you ought, as you do—

Is this what it feels like?

Where is there happiness if not for in the end?