so what does it mean to stare your bullshit in the face
what response comes to mind?
is it poetically painful? satisfying enough? both?
when haunted faithfully by ghost emotions
and the ones who’ve seen the most of you
can’t bear to look
in your own eyes
as that check-in text is sent, registered, archived for the last time
and you know you’ve really earned it; the silence
has been read and received
does anxiety speak volumes of truth for you? how does ‘numb’ auto-correct?
perhaps it’s all the same
running away in a cage
an earnest futility
motion isn’t action, is it?
harsh reality in dirty mirrors
thrown back at you
when touch meets sight
in your crusted corners
dim light, like relative clarity, beckons,
reveals familiar darkness
so then full-length, and filled out
why stand there?
what do you say?