Ailments

 

What ails you?

My back hurts     the guilt has spread its bony wings

 

Dissolved throats     regurgitating acid

A cup spills that orange substance

And the stomach lining touched with rust

It is only an irritation

A flesh wound                      Arteries make a body

“I don’t feel a heart anymore”

I lost it in that blue confession room

Along with the goddess that lived there

It was I who tortured it…

What ails you?

I haven’t hated myself enough

But suicide is not good enough

Too cynical for apologies,

But alienated enough to sink underground

 

Lynchian Stillness

There aren’t moments I hope

Only events I regret

I want to fight this discomfort

But I have become too use to this

 

Feeling like this

 

These are my ailments.

 

© A.R. Minhas 2016

 

(Unrequited love isn’t curable but you can live with it– in discomfort)

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