Hope for us.
you
there
standing around like
the figment of
some preteen's too-intensely
idealized
imagination.
Let it go,
let it all go.
THe only remains of it
exist between
the same ears
that recorded her every word.
Let it go.
The beating beasts beneath
our chests are an endangered
species.
So let it go.
We are all alike but we are not
the same.
A cesspool of excuses
is what we dig our bitter little hands
into for relief,
though nothing of aid can be said
when you prefer a grave to a hospital bed.
So let it go.
Because a bruise is no less a shield than a scab is.
Once injured you're not more likely to be
had
than those who inexperience
has given naivety.
So let it go.
Let it go.
It ends on its own, but only
if you believe it should.
Emotions have the lung capacity
of spaceships.
I know.
But let it go.
Its worth letting go.
They, he, she, everyone who has
Stolen pieces of the lifetime you belong in
is worth letting go of.
So let it go.
Affection is our only remaining importance in this
configured torture.
So give it to someone who needs it.
And let it go.
You are their holocausts,
their hollow causes,
their extremities of perseverance,
and their mistakes.
You are like them,
you are similar to all who have suffered,
but you are not them.
So let it go.
Who wonders for any other reason than
to wander from the present?
We all do.
So let it go.
Wander only from that which has left you.
Bind not to what will not even
look you in the eye to say thank you
or fuck you.
Let it go.
Give in to the notion
of a continuation,
undetermined, but inevitable,
if you
let it go.
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