untitled.

I feel so fucking needy

and that’s the part I can’t keep getting away with

physically here but unable to realize, to breathe fully enough—fuck poetry and fuck trying to be good at it

the words only appear when you are: on the fucking ground, too battered by your god to know left from right

alone beside a cabin, horrified by the possibility that you might just Be This Way Forever

and so lost in the eyes of someone you think sees you that you forget your cup is meant to be full too. Pouring one out for the beggar I used to be.