confessional in the antechamber of a bored judge

i drove
between orange cones
like a maniac
with sea salt blood
and anger boiling
in gouts
of briney spew
like the liquefied remains
of earnest hopes
by abusive mothers
filled with
the special indignation
only the narcissistic
self loathing
can muster

i told myself if she raised that hanger again to hell with consequences, i was coiled like a spring, wincing from the running blood down my back and aches of the lashes but cold, frozen with rage and sad and confused and lost

the headaches began not long after but were my secret suffering, my own personal reminder that living is not for the weak, that dying is for the tired, yet i never felt so weak and tired all the time, so take that as you may but never think to pass judgement

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