Stumbling.

stumbling.

upon poetry filled with painful nostalgia is jarring and also sobering. reality becomes vivid and suddenly all of my problems are sitting next to me nudging my arm.

there’s a hole in my elbow.

my issues don’t know when to let go

and I don’t know where to go when I get this low, I don’t have the energy to dig a hole

and I don’t know where it would lead me anyways?

I’ve been crying and writing for days and I’m still filled with misery.

Even when I stop reading my poems they write me. an unavoidable history. erase me.

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