lies i tell myself

why is it so difficult
to let go
of my anger,
sadness, shame?

why insist on holding on
to the things that hurt
me?

wrapping myself up
in a blanket of my own
undoing
my own undoing
proves to be
the thing i value
most

perversity,
this soothing
self-abuse
the faster my heart beats
the closer
my wan embrace

until it seems
there’s nothing left
but this

but this

holding on because
there’s nothing else
to grasp

 

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