[Biting debris flew from my mouth and
into hands, you
tucked that trash away.]
In the days that follow, I am
seething, sinking slouching from
what as and now what is.
Aftermath. Echos of what
Used to be are shrill and ear-shattering.
Don't make this harder, please, I beg
let me release while you ingest.
I am a poor consumer of
all truths and lies and facts.
I am a poor consumer of
reality, my dear.
So as these lurking, pensive words reach
from my mouth to yours, just hear-
I cannot be what I am not.
I cannot be your future.
Author notes
i need a new title.
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