the familiarity
the plague of sentimentality
the bone catastrophe
blood marrow for the off-the grid lock endurance
opening your heart with the butter knife
calmly retrieved and stored in hand crouched into the couch
you really believed the people in recovery
endured endless and laughable levels (I can laugh at myself) of error and miscalculation for hope but insane psychic clarity levels of being crushed
it’s my birthday gift to cry all I want
as long as I am insular
as long as my island is not too far from civilization
everyday malaise and normality
survival is my wheelhouse
I am a rock but like all of life I will erode into the shores merging into the ocean
searching for warm pleasure and dismemberment
entering and rehoming the body
once more crushed with such certainty