Barely becoming, a treasure, I yearned for a heartache or two.

For the need to know to froth on the surface of the soup meant that I was lacking pretty bad, I guess. But it was strange to me that there was no seed that begged to be watered by a love beforehand.

Fairly soon, I realized that fantasy makes paintings commissioned by my discreet agony. But execute that shit in your real life and it’s just disappointing.

I walked between a strong denial and a slow withdrawal, each with one of my arms draped around their shoulders. They worked to steady my stumbling while laughing to each other about my state.

I’ll never rid myself of those guys.

Poetry and writings // PDX

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