— a poem of potpourris.

Recyclable

Am I truly just another thing waiting for disposal?

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

I’m so used to being used
I don’t mind them
for leaving afterwards.

I’m so used to being used
I don’t mind the ghost
that I know will come running after.

I’m so used to being used
I don’t mind blaming
myself for not learning every time.

But what I do mind
are all the nights I spent awake
with the same thoughts, came rushing through:

“What if …”

and just spending the rest of my days
thinking of what would happen
if the demons acted differently

and what would happen if they’d come again
with flowers on their hands.