11.17.2017 (Fire Story)

I write from pain but never from apathy

But in apathy is where I long for the words

Where I reach for them

 

Tonight is such a tangible lonesome

It is violently, angrily grasping at me

And I feel the ache of the empty

Heavy, hanging off of one shoulder

 

But in my periphery I see shapes moving

I hear their flirtatious laughter, the most innocent lust

It echoes in their rooms and through the halls

Through me

It resonates

Like weeping in an empty church

Or a scream on a deserted street

 

And it goes undressed, except in weary waterfalls

I’ve been trying not to hold onto it, but it sits in the center of my chest at night

When I’m trying to float away

 

There is no longer satisfaction in the invisible

None in the internal

None in the fantastical and none in the real

I am only privy to the pleasure of escape

 

A forth of it all is so bitter

And nausea inducing

But I cannot put it down

I’m wearing on the filter

And won’t say it again

Because once should be enough

 

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