It is actually a word.

I want to leave the house but I can’t
stop pulling at my eyelashes, quick flashes
of worriment mean I can’t stop cleaning the carpet.
And I can’t find the socks that stop above the knee
too low or not high enough? Life is rough
when you can’t keep your middle aged eyes
away from young girls thighs. (I hope you die.)
Would you like to drive in the dark with me
past the forest and palpitate with me
play that song and watch my nails tear
at the root, I pull out my hair.

(Please like/follow for more poems on the daily aches of noticing more than you should.)


3 thoughts on “It is actually a word.

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