all my fucking poetry crumbles in my hands
like the ruins of a temple built for something too sacred to withstand
the poor and shameful attempt to convey
the glory and serenity of the inspiring deity
are you happy that you’re free of me?
does my memory haunt the corridors of your mind the way your memories writhe through mine?
is it blasphemy to think that maybe
you wanted to love me for the rest of your life?
i feel like a butterfly beneath a pin upon your wall
something once living, now immortalized by pity and endearing novelty
can anybody hear me?
God I love the autumn
where everything is dying in a beautiful way
and falling into disarray
it’s every poet’s dirty fantasy
to see such a display of classic entropy
which you can rely on every year
the same way my parents always anticipate
me spiraling into the darkness
when the ones i love abandon me
i’m such a pathetic fallacy sometimes
these recollections of you always pour out me
like vomit, like blood
uncontrollable and embarrassing
i literally can’t control myself
every fucking thing is just a metaphor
for the way you made me feel
oh god, you made me feel.