Ode to Agony

lately I’ve been giving the same old lines. like,
“really, I’m good,” and, “everything is fine.” and I get that we fucked
everything up, and we got way out of
line, but
I’ve got a couple renewable vices in the cabinet,
and a bad decision in the bedroom,
don’t threaten me with a good time.

and right now I just wish
I wasn’t trapped inside this body.
even though I love this body.
love the things this body
has done,
love the obstacles this body has overcome, like
Icarus kissing a dying crying sun,

and, ya, maybe the game isn’t
but there’s some correlation
in the current context,
and when history looks back
somebody has to be the one
who won.

so fuck accruing interest,
I’ll take my rightful
in a
lump sum,
then spend the whole
account at once,
and use it to purchase a single

where your fragrance doesn’t haunt every vacant corner, these thoughts don’t contradict painstakingly constructed self-images, these headaches don’t make me want to blow my brains all over the porcelain, your words don’t echo between my ears like memories of slit wrists and silent nighttimes, these nightmares don’t come for me in my weakest moments and bring me to my knees over and over and over again, these hellish visions of failed infinity don’t rape me during every dissociative moment, these crippling doubts don’t rob me of everything I thought I believed in, these cogs of entropy don’t slowly kill me like a nicotine addiction, these one-night stands don’t cause me to wake up in cold sweats wishing you were here to calm the songs of agony, this slowburn madness doesn’t take me to brimstone riversides and waterboard me every fucking day, this pain in my head my eyes my tear-ducts my hands my stomach my heart my heart my heart would just stop, these sirens would stop sounding in my head, these car tires would stop churning in my head, this liquor would stop burning in my head, you would stop fucking your husband in my head, your god would stop pretending to exist in my head…

fuck existential dread,
I would murder every relativistic concept,

if I could just put this somatic agony
to bed;

and I would 
no remorse

at all.

Willie Watt


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