you deal with it your whole life, it is never solved.

(me and the teacher student
sex-hemmed friendships,
I should try to understand and)

I talked to you
about what stuff I'm fighting with,
picking through it like gamy meat, wondered about what
it is for you to watch
my pink fingernails and my fork
poking through for juicy parts,
me, bone dry these days, so stiff,
just bloody.

even dreamed i coughed up blood two nights ago,
clumpy like tomato soup and tasted like twizzlers
and if i picked the clumps off the ground
pulled them out of the grass with my fingers,
and weighed them on the bathroom scale
what would you say to me?
what on earth could you tell me to do, taking
into consideration that
I might love you a little bit for saying anything

you said you're either born
in conflict with yourself or you're not and
if you are you're just going to keep on
battling and battling and (I look at myself,
and the blood blood blood)
there's nothing just nothing to do about it.
i said what?
and you said, like, if existence is a problem.
and i said, well existence should
be a problem, god, or it shouldn't be, but not
yes for some and no for the rest of them.

but you said should is a word
that doesn't apply
to this sort
of conversation.
and i'll swallow it or at least
hide it in my cheeks, my face is hot here and
i have so much to learn
and you seem to know so
tell me tell me tell
me