Why do I enjoy this?
The dry crackle of dead leaves beneath my feet,
the cold that drives me behind walls of cotton and wool.
Why does being surrounded by death feel so hopeful?
I know my deepest rot isn’t dying,
my own cruel poisons.
This is just my heart flipped outward,
myself— a curse unleashed.
Maybe I’m just grateful time is still passing?
Even as I hate my flesh,
and even when I turn to dust,
the years will keep going.
Maybe it’s just enough to know that good will exist somewhere else?
Even if you never know whether or not it will reach you.
Leave a Reply