Incomplete
I’m exactly halfway through
a life that’s quarter-built,
celebrating one step closer
to a coffin lined in guilt.
I’m supposed to feel and think,
to stay and seem all right,
for those who’d love me less
if they knew my mind at night.
Notes on containment and the leaking self.
I’m exactly halfway through
a life that’s quarter-built,
celebrating one step closer
to a coffin lined in guilt.
I’m supposed to feel and think,
to stay and seem all right,
for those who’d love me less
if they knew my mind at night.