Throw

your hands up into the air like
you haven’t got a grip of anything;
i fear, i’m losing it, i’ve lost it all.

It’s but a week since all the separations and whatnot and the flying by of a going away and coming back and it honestly feels like we never left but it already feels like a year on top of the years since they’ve been gone and all the residues of feelings are
d r e a d and a grOWING numbness and spl i t t i n g pain
it honestly feels like I’ve woken up into a nightmare, lost –
unsure which direction am I headed towards, if any form of progress at all.

In dreams in run around, at the corner of a building I see a row of shophouses
They are but a figment of imagination gone in a
flash.

Would it be rude if I excused myself from the duties of trying so hard \ too hard to maintain friendships that spore or spur all over the places

because each time I try to pick the pieces of myself up i drop another one and then I just want to smash them all into the ground because I get so frustrated with the inadequacy, my inadequacy, of breathing while not even being half alive.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.
Sylvia Plath

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