I put you on repeat. I’m sad.
I want to tell you about mourning,
why it feels good to be away.
I’m making dents in my ceiling.
I put you on repeat,
and my sins pile like nails.
There’s clothes between furniture.
I haven’t washed for days, weeks even…
No one sees the mess I’ve become.
I don’t pray, or talk to God.
I miss the bliss in my chest
after several months of debt.
at times I’m paranoid,
that there is a man nearby, watching
over my shoulder like a hawk, a light
disappearing at the edge of my eye view.
I let you blow out, scared, hope you’re okay.
Writing is a gem.
There is something sexy about mixing thoughts
of your fading in ink, in what I feel,
and wanting grows emergent…
Gently, your face is leaving my mind;
I’m forgetting what first you appeared to be.
The internet has made you pretty.
There are pictures of you everywhere.
Fire. They scream your name like hot, hot.
to be stripped of bodily functions,
to lie dirty on the mattress,
and flick my finger over your candle,
I’m a ring away to hear you breathe.
my shrines are gathered around me
to celebrate the smoke.
It is how badly I put you on repeat.
can you see how awful the demons are,
the talons, and how badly I want to burn?




Photo by Prateek Gautam on Unsplash