i have these
conversations
where i explain
my manic shatter
to the people
i wish wanted
to talk to me
in my head when
i try to sleep
i carefully
construct the words
detailing which
actions left me
in this state
where i feel
incapable of
speaking out loud
smallerandsmaller
iballupmyemotions
mutteringtomyself
inthesilencewhile
she goes on as if
i never existed
no one loves a poet
not even themself
I happen to love poets. π
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everyone picks their own poison
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Lol. Thatβs fair.
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technically, each breath is one closer to the end, so maybe everything is poisonous in its own way.
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Me, with anxiety and coffee every morning. π
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same. thank goodness for the sparrows.
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