(written 26 december 2022, 4:20 am et.)
it confounds me that somehow, sometimes,
the past finds its way to the present.
is it reality? or just the wine-coloured glasses through which i view it?
does it matter?
am i not broken enough, or too broken,
for the words to find me?
i wish to drop the carefully
(though unintentionally)
stitched veneer,
like dropping a silk gown
(worn commando)
in a fell swoop.
(i want it to be sexy.)
do any of the constructs hold up?
or is it a brave new world
that i'm simply not brave enough for?
(a friend told me ending sentences in prepositions
is not the crime i thought it was.
maybe that's the answer to undo all my questions.
nothing i ever thought ever mattered.)
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