I have this feeling
that I’m sinking.
Everything is pulling me
and yeah,
gravity and mass are proportional.
So is energy.
So is pain.

So is love.

Thank you, universe.
I am able to cry again.

Mind:
“You don’t have to.”
I need this.

Mind:
“It’s ******* hilarious.”
I know.

Everything will be fine
(whatever that means).
Think about good times,
when your body was a lighter cage.

Think about
when you're going to die.
Your last ragged breath.

What then?
Nothing.
No responsibilities.
No plagiarism.
No kleptomania.
No dark passenger
popping ****** GIFs into your frontal lobe
since 7:77AM till 7:78AM.
Just as real and infinite as any real number can get

No voices.
No sense.
No brainstorms
that will erode and corrode your atmosphere.

And— Nooooo!
touch of love.
Only the memory of it.
The echo.
The versions of you
that keep changing
every time they’re remembered.

And now these tears—
they won’t stop.
Rolling off my heavy metal ribbed chest.