poetry

Gone Fishing

Apparently
I cannot use
My ability to count backwards
From twenty thirty forty fifty
My accuracy when ordering
Pizza and sides for 16 people
My competency in requesting
A taxi from one real address to another
My capability of making
Total strangers fall in love with me
My secrecy in hiding my bleeding
Arms to the masses
To measure the severity of
My mental health crisis.

But I fucking do it anyway.

(I lay down in
His massive bed
And think to myself
“I could definitely die here.”)

(He has genuinely
Gone fishing.
The irony of this is
Not lost on me.
I just wish he left a note
Saying so.)

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4 thoughts on “Gone Fishing

  1. thefeatheredsleep says:

    Words to live and die by. Burned into stone. Worn around neck.
    These especially;
    “My competency in requesting
    A taxi from one real address to another
    My capability of making
    Total strangers fall in love with me
    My secrecy in hiding my bleeding
    Arms to the masses”

    Idea of hiding bleeding, the pain, and nobody knows, the masses, the masks, the idea of being competent and undone at the same time, nobody knowing, too clever even for the witch doctors. Yes. Yes. Yes.

    Like

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