the problem.

i will not come to you anymore
biting, scatching, burning

nuzzling, huggling in imitations
of a face
i wanted to know
but hardly, truly knew

and i know this is rattled out on a Sunday morning
and my emotions cave
like a porous clanging
amorous teeming with
mental unstability

i can’t deal with me,
these times.
hozier’s crooning
gets me by,
but there are bigger things at stake

friendship teetering on scales
and background singers
whose sail of vibrato
is the only thread connecting me to reality.

i sometimes get sad at the slightest thing,
because all you wanted to do is protect me;
and if i could,
the self-destructive button would be pressed immediately
to rapidly turn around
when scorned, refused
i am tired
of wanting myself to be used
constantly crawling back
in lieu of friendship, the things we lack
the problem is
we’re not that for each other
so let me face this fact.



Author: gerbilette

Write, edit, be. Write, love, poetry.

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