i cannot be

if I could convince myself,

maybe swear to you

that everything and

everyone is alone.

The rivers throw themselves

against the rocks and

beat their fragments a bloody


The tips of my fingers have been

cold for too long and there is no

such thing as catharsis.

For every weight shed there a billion

stones hurled and even the stars

have managed to comfort

themselves in the darkest of things.

Thirty four years is not safety,

it is not security.

Neither is the seventeen sinking

like rocks in my chest.

I never will be, never have been

content with the days between my fingertips.


skins pressed cannot sate desires,

my tears are not enough to keep you

you are not wrong for the ways you tried to

drown your sadness

there is no renewal in days new.

This poem is about: 
My family


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