![]() “I don’t feel like a part of anything.” I read that online. Aside it were pictures of faces - girls - Split up and sewn together. My mother watches me Watch her flowers Slurp up the water from the vase For three or four days. I tell her how I feel I am disappearing. ![]() I’d read about it in books – characters who change, And how it’s irreversible. She said she finds me ordinary. I so want to be anything but petty, anything but small. There is a hole out in the field beyond our house. It never reached water, but looks bottomless. We dig deep to see what will retrieve us. And sometimes I want to dig deeper And deeper, to see what pulls me out of it all. ![]() Here I am too accompanied. I buy books to look at them. And magazines. And I wonder how many more fucking things I’ll have to force myself to care about Before I feel worthwhile here. Maybe I’m just someone who likes fewer things. Ever thought of that? Do I have to consume everything? ![]() I'm tired of consumption And searching. I just want to hit the bottom, Where anything that matters to me will matter, And anything that doesn’t will simply not matter. And I won’t apologize for any of it. If I want something, it'll be for the right reasons. Because it’s me. Not because it's expected of me. I don’t want that tension.
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