In this body, where everything sits next to hurts.
I’m a broken boy picking every piece of happiness
into a saggy hole orchestrated by memories.

My sister says “when depression invades the soul,
it turns the body into a beggar, alm-ing at the feet of
healing; it makes the body kneel with the head upturned”

& I, stuck in an emotional cross road —
Somewhere between healing and scars, where even that
that leads to happiness is draped in thorns.

& my mother says “worry more about the itching not the bleeding”
which is her shorter way of saying,
I keep searching for things where they can’t be found.











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