stockwell station
a feeling
the unexplainable kind
one that is all consuming but then leaves you with nothing at all
i want to divulge, i do
but pain serves as a memory that there is such a thing as – too soon – too much– too late– not enough
labels destroy, they crush.
the insurmountable weight of last night.
to even be sorry for writing in this candour – it should be can do, not a splurge of theatrics and self – pity. i think joyce would be proud of me, plath would, ironically, laugh.
even in my bask of a fat hippo’s wallow, I have you in mind
why?
perhaps an external locust whom struggles to be important to herself, so she has to be to somebody else
i smile as i write this because it is the truth
and as someone said
it is brutal.
