There's no light beyond my eyes.
These lids are thin enough.
Rhythms carry past the windows.
Rhythms tempt us to moor on rocks.
Like a wire to a fish,
still alive, flailing to death,
I worry I am to the best parts of this.
Oh, Anhedonia.
I can't feel anything.
Oh, but worry
and the sickening.
There's still one last shot of hope
in the bottle that we call home.
Pouring water past my lips
lustful and pregnant with regret.
Tell myself it can't get worse.
Unless it does. Pray miss the birth.
I'll crawl on joints. Curse the pain.
Curse my will, and curse my name.
You could curse my name,
but why waste a breath on me?
Oh, Anhedonia.
I can't feel anything.
Oh, but worry
and the sickening.
There's still one last shot of hope
in the bottle that we call home.
Oh, wallow for a moment.
Then store up your reserve.
You're too damned stubborn to quit.
And too vain to lose your nerve.
Oh, Anhedonia.
I can't feel anything.
Oh, but worry
and the sickening.
There's still one last shot of hope
in the bottle that we call home.
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