tired, tired, tired
i don’t want to say bad things about us
the longer time passes
the worse i feel
and i want to be wrong
healing feels like a burial
making a molehill out of a mountain
perhaps i’m just rotting from the inside
like wood, slowly
only when it bears a load
or when a match is struck
i’ll break
and i won’t burn
the wood weeps for the tree it once was
and the forest it has lost
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