no cure

in the quiet hours
after the world
has fallen asleep
the whispers
fill my head
as i desperately
drift towards
slumber
that never fully
embraces me
back

same with
the universe itself
it only gives
limp
half attempts
at comforting embraces
just enough to know
it is forced
unmeant
nonreciprocal
incidental
brushings against
rather than
resembling
an actual
loving hug
the cold
negative space
between
two icebergs
in the warming
seas
of tepid self denial

the whispers say
to expect
nothing
more
than one soul
deserves
even as that
ingrown soulspur
leaves
infected burrows
dripping pus
to tarnish further
the fool
with his ugly
misshapen
heart
as the stench of rot
imbues
insomnial whining

i am sleepy
but moreso
tired
from singing
into the void
hoping
for an answer
in the nothingness
within

i am tired
but moreso
sleepily
avoiding the truth
that doesn’t
whisper back
that i am
the ingrown blight
the infection is me

and there is no
cure

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