insomnia is not a noun, it is a verb (poem #20)

Why do I hate myself this way?

Why do I feel so insignificant yet so immense?

It’s impossible to love myself for too long. 

I ruminate.

Silenced.

I get visions of heavy knives and heavy women stuck deep inside me.

There they are.

All the women in all the world and me,

on the side,

waiting to be loved completely. 

Waiting, fading, ugly, insignificant.

I feel pieces of me flicking off each time I think of a woman. 

Any woman that has something that I do not. 

Which is every woman,

so I’m dead and I rot there, sitting.

Wilting.

So dramatic, like some modern day geisha in my silk robe, bloated with sadness.

He’s there, explaining his humanness, but all I hear is pain jabbed in, melted in all the cracks.

I’m to blame for being a rainbow.

I deserve it.

I deserve it.

I deserved it then, all the foreign objects inside me. 

I deserve it now, all these rusted words force-fed.

I am no good and I will follow through with these messages.

I am no good, remember.

I am only a safe tenant that pays rent.

I am a bride for anyone willing to take me.

I am a wife of many nights turned day.

I don’t remember why I was put here?

Poetry or distress?

All I’ve heard from lovers is, “you’ve never left my mind.

Oh baby, it’s because I am a street, and I allowed you to walk on me frequently.

Now, I’m all granite and pills.

You wouldn’t like me now. 

I am still fun to swallow,

but not good company.

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