Sunday, September 3


91 pounds of meat, bones and blood.
A question.
We claw, knead and pinch at the sides.
There is too much flesh
to contain the vacuum.

So we spin and we run and sometimes
we click our heels together.
Yet we don’t get any smaller,
We don’t disappear like we’re supposed to.

We starve, we smile, we want and we need.
We fuck
 to fill the hours in between.
We work
 to tire ourselves enough to sleep.

To feign purpose,
to be able to answer-
“So what do you do for a living?”
To forget that there has to be
something more than this.

This chasm-
the minutes that pass
when you can’t fall asleep
looking for cracks in the ceiling
or patterns of light.

Trying to make sense
of the stranger beside you.
While the void keeps getting bigger
and yet,

there’s still too much flesh.

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