After 2016 I Don’t Want To Live On This Planet Anymore

The pressure in my sutures
From all the shit I can’t push out
From between my fucking ears
And I just want to light myself on fire
I want to
I don’t
I want to be molecularly deconstructed
My subatomic particles picked through
Reconstituting as other objects spatially divorced
Randomly scattered over the expanse of the unknown universe

I want to
But I don’t

I want these things
These states of unbeing
As far from the here as possible
Because they seem more achievable
More graspable
Handleable
Wrap-able
Than things
Like peaceful grounded living
Like clean water
Like inheritance of the evolutionary knowledge base
Like screaming when pained
Like shelter
Like food
Like fucking

Something small
To hold
Or mold
Like burials as sacred
Or the right to be naked
A walk down the street in the middle of the night
A smoke, toke, bump, or lip-curling drink
The freedom of falling
In love
In line
Out of place
Out of and back
Into faith
Into grace

These are and should be life’s simple things
Perplexing that the fundamental liberties
Easier to deny by force
Than grant through simple acknowledgment
Love should only be a fist
If the fisting in question in consensual


A totally unrelated side note: Did I mention the band? Well, it exists…sort of.

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About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook: facebook.com/MolyTov
This entry was posted in Poetry, Written, Written Work and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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