Every night I run- I hear that dose out of the heavy-heart erection

Of my emotions that I just resist feeling.

The internal wreckage has a ship wrecked fountain pen

Just waiting to be used and abused

The way she always has been.

And yet, her mind is this low-lit wreckage

    Of the his-story of the rawness that leads

To every bloody fiery feeling I don’t know how to feel….how to be human.

This is a thing now.

We are supposed to be OK being human

After all these years…

It’s OK now.

How the fuck do you light that flame to burn

For the last hundred days…and

The emotional cutter I highlight as on days I show my face

And my low-lit smirk some call dimples. I call the smile.

She mutters.

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