the tightening in my chest. the ache that finds my angles, all my spectacular corners, so pink, so unexpectedly soft. in my private moments i like to give these spaces a name and i name them Ugly. i name them Inept. i name them Not Good Enough.
my friend wants to slap my face for speaking this way and so i cough up all my vain confessions. i pour the vodka in to the empty pocket where my heartache has bored a hole. i look at my face in the mirror and try to see yours.
i look at my face and wish i was looking at yours.
and maybe i'm not trying to build anything lasting, after all? maybe it's just all this hunger we've been taught to hold, taught to cultivate, when really my exaltation is as dependent upon my destruction as it is these rare moments of pleasure in which my spirit soars, in which my spirit is reborn...
in so much spit! in so much sweat! and the man screams "immerse your soul in love!" if this is not religion, i do not know what is. if this is not religion, let all religions fall.
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