poem: letter to myself

the only thing I could imagine piercing me today
is the long cat-vomit pink, stretch, of
sky — and after driving home, the awareness of the earth that would not
accept or come into me, the places I will not go
because they are outside, and I cannot? cannot! leave
this bedroom, the walls bent in and glaring glowing — the same
ironic effect, the franz kafka nights where I revel
in the hatred, other people, have for me; the simplicity of taking
my, your father as my
god, the same feeling as when I pull-back my hair, with a 90s
clip-claw, walmart knock-off air force ones, sixty-dollar c.k.
sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt from who
knows where, plus puffer jack, plus french
music/wailing in the car, and the
sunset cuts into me and the sky — equally, as we are driving back
from hell, not leaving — all these hikes
I will not take, all these coffee shops I will never
see; they close at 3 p.m., when I am still sleeping off last
night — the fake sexual revels, the thrill of a monster-nazi
father hating me, my own weakness, my own beautiful
slim weakness draped and wet across my hand,
like sex, like coming onto myself, it is secure — it is
religion, the security of nihilism, the art-fucking, the enduring
hopelessness of now, and my own frail hands/head
very easily crushed and the 90s claw-clip, pulled off, like a loose
animal-trap, from my bloody
cadaver teeth: I am true crime, I am letter to

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