poem: ‘lofi for anxiety’ on spotify

my hands are very dry — tonight. and in the raw grate of my
head ten-thousand people would fuck
me, and then sit with me in coffee shops and I would say, if I went
to grad school, the only thing I would write my thesis on is the mythological
and archetypal basis for bad boy/good girl ships. like, it’s not
just daddy issues (although also yes it
is) but it is also — baked into us! it’s innate! and of course then the ten-
thousand have turned one, he sits very close with a smile draped like the round
edges of gravestones. anime-insomniacs, the sun flashing suddenly in my
rear-view mirror. the feeling of driving alone
at night, the road slicked in front of you and the darkness curling wet back
but lit — up! — green and red and earth-licked. and he says
I also have suffered. and when he leaves the bathroom he remembers to grab the lotion
because he thinks of you and your corpse hands, and he thinks she might
need this.

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