semi-permanently
are my eyes now
worn red
with life's heartache
Every
Thing
Feels like a Mis-Take:
the solitude I so
desperately desire
enforced, rather than chosen
December '23:
I had no
idea
(no-one can see you crying
if it's pissing down with rain
if you've all got your
eyes
closed, ohm)
my eyes
swollen like
my womb
the puncturing of which
began the tears
(this banshee comes out
only under the cover of bush)
swiping at the deadwood
as if it was his fault
grief festering in
my left lung.
unsurprisingly,
I'm sick
I'm ageing,
I'm dying