(how else should i say this?)
her brokenness has mastered mine —overwhelmed by feelings of mutual twathood— inviting us to staring contests at insomnia o’clock.
his dictaphone has a single message:
“i can’t fix you; I’ll carry you”.
(does anyone else know this is happening? probably not.)
i like to think of myself as a stubborn non-human organism experiencing existential nightmares as though i were human. after numerous almost-failed attempts at long-form, i now call myself a poet (which i use as an excuse to be cynical about life).