I existed as a plague
Memorizing movie lines with no real intent,
Day old relationships built and broken with the luxury of no remorse.
I was a sinner,
But only because it’s what they called me.
They named me something from pages in books,
Riddled me and put my own story into context.
I created a defense against myself and imagined a meaningful dialogue with who I am and who I’d like to become.
We’d say back and forth to each other things we don’t really mean and make promises that neither can keep.
I offered up myself to my own mirage of self conflict and comfort in the nothing that followed from my tongue to my mind in eager footsteps. I aborted my reason, and gave no real reason in its place.
I poisoned myself with the ability to believe that something would be waiting for me when my imagination would begin to forsake me and send me back to what they believe they see.
I rationed these thoughts into “would be†and “couldn’t be†like the road won’t end at the end of the rope.
I adjusted and asphyxiated any questions that my conscience might draw up as I remember to breathe.
I’m not dead yet.
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