my poetry is only getting worse, i am still stuck. here. again. where? well, i think that my width and depth of feeling have been shot to hell. straight to hell, like my lungs and my back and my leg. i am so exhausted and tired and downtrodden that i can't tell if indifference is indifference, if crying is indifference. to not truly be affected is to not truly be alive. so i am still alive? thank you, doctor. thank you, my family will take it as good news. how old do you think i am? don't ask me that. the benefit of an answer will lead you nowhere. stop calling me names. it's not funny, anymore. it tires me and myself, to be called a bitch and a slut and to smile when you flirt with all the girls that are so obviously prettier than me. i wonder when i stopped wanting to be saved and simply wanted to be held. when does a human realise that they cannot be saved, ever, ever ever ever. not you, me, my father and his sadness.
on the matter of love, well, i have nothing to say.