hopelessness,
circumcised tip of the
i c e b u r g.
i don’t know
who or what i’m even
longing for,
or if i could
t r u s t
enough to
articulate it.
existence feels
cumbersome, and
i don’t even know why
i even express, or create.
i want someone to
i don’t know.
i don’t know if it even matters,
at this point.
