Me wanting does not guarantee
me moving, me doing, me…anything.
Stuck doesn’t begin to describe
where I am,
how I am –
in molasses,
remote viewing,
mute,
still –
as the turmoil and maelstrom
seethe and burn
and turn
me inside out.
I spectate my life
staggering from pillar to post –
it’s all I’ve ever known,
a perverse comfort of familiarity.
I don’t want it
to change
to stay
to be
to not.
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