the cruelest thing about hope is that it doesnt kill/ just leaves you /alive/enough to balance precarious /on the brink of despair /but not quite there/ the way it chains you to the rusty roller-coaster of desire /and you are always flushed heart deafened ears/as reality rushes past

my father compares/me to an ostrich for the way/they hide their faces in the sand/ as precaution against the storm/and i am  always/burrowed in a daydream/breathless from just having got off/its wings

once i decided to love/wrote poems about a boy i/never knew because our love story/would then resonate/with every strain of romeo and juliet once i/almost fell in love with a boy/because/he looked like allen ginsberg at a certain angle/only to see him as he and/realise there was nothing there/for me/i was always/playing god with my heart/framing every universe it ever/inhabited

but now im soaked/in crimson sunsets/im all rotting insides and gleaming flesh/and sunken cries/now i/still hope/in the white 3 am/between my pillows/i breathe in dreams/press them into place/with the driest tears/then i go/back to sleep/back to daydream/now i/still dream/i still hope/and it/leaves me/transfixed


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