piffler: a confession 

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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

swollen, empty

when touch meets sight

in your crusted corners

dim light, like relative clarity, beckons,

teases,

reveals familiar darkness

so then full-length, and filled out

why stand there?

what do you say?

ss.

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