I milk your improbable moats,

the borders flailing around your inundated head.

Dying occurs in stages, like grief.

Dying begins and ends with retreat.

Your eyes fill me with dysphoria

and sunken ships leagues beneath their peak.

If only we could be happier with ourselves.

Your aglet penetrates my eyelet,

a clever stitch that accounts for the passage of air.

Does your blood run cold when looking in the mirror?

A veneer like flypaper, intimacy attaches names and faces

to crimes that occur exclusively within.

Do I terrorize you? My questions resonating

like tinnitus in your keen ear. I could ruin you,

I could leave. I have no desire to do either

but convincing you has proven beyond my power.

I’ll believe for the both of us, some days that’s what

love is. Some days are impossible and others

improbable but each and every one of them

worth saving and in a pinch we can use

our collective baggage to start a fire.


10 responses to “Dysphoria

  1. Okay! So I can’t go to the depths you do with prose. I’m always fascinated when I read your elaborate words. Please accept my kudos regarding this post. Hmmm.. it’s good.

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