i will hold the centre
until my hands bleed
and still entropy and atrophy
will take everything.
i’m not sure who i have become—
i don’t recognize this face
when i’m alone—
but she is lovely
and kinder than i’ve ever been.
i don’t want to be
me before you
but i can’t seem to stop
the bleeding.
tired of love
and the loss that follows
sick with disappointment
and the brutal emptiness
of exposure.
i’ve chosen this.
and it will not break me.
but i am losing ground
and poisoned by hope.


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