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On Tuesday

The first night, I stayed up shaking.


I could stop myself when I concentrated—


When I got myself to stop thinking about her—


Which took tremendous effort to do—


And I could only manage for a few seconds at a time—


But eventually, I fell asleep. 




The second night,


I wrote shitty poems about it;


Which,


 Who the hell knows if that even helps anymore?


And I got really high;


Which, 


Who the hell knows if that even helps anymore?





Tomorrow, I should make it back to home,


But, for fucksake,


Calling it home now,


Feels wrong.


It feels ugly.


Because,


She’s my home now.




And then on Tuesday I should drink until I fall back asleep. 



CH 12/14/25

 
 
 

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