25: m.

25: m., post-humously 2016, 2017, 2018.

luckily? you are always on my mind around this time
you are always on my mind
all of the time, every moment every breath-
but that’s besides the point.
at these particular circuitous moments,
there you are.
this time, the first time–
i wrote,
today i am a failure, tomorrow, who knows? i panicked and fled from the building like a frightened horse and got lost in the thick Bradbury shit of the forest, commiserating with the universal long-dead self-hatred among the trees near a vandalized statue of Chris Columbus; I smelled the water but I didn’t want to drown and realized that my therapist was right, that animals resist death when it’s presented as a last resort, I think. Whatever.

The articles were right. People who succeed are unaware of their success. People who fail are bound to fail again and again. I don’t have a game plan. I need to keep my job. Try again. I don’t know what’s left. I think my girlfriend masturbates in the shower. I’m that kind of guy now who has completely devolved into a failure. It’s a test. Hey, you’re a test.

and that was even after you died and the sunset was waning into a gaping, black beyond and I was alone (but not really) and cold, and this time, last year;

what’s progress, anyway? Have I made it by simply living to fight another year, feeding and clothing myself, going to the gym, forging relationships, watching myself grow and change like a monster exploding from human skin? Maybe. Was it progress to fail twice, watch my cat malinger and die, take home her cremains, lose my job, stand in the middle of my apartment with a broken ankle wailing and just leave? I can’t tell if I’m still moving in the right direction, whatever that may be.

that was all so sad, that now I can’t help but cradle my tender self in my cosmic arms and whisper–

yes, it happened again
yes, I am sorry,
no, it’s not the end,
here we are again
the last time I didn’t think to commemorate it with a photo, the first time was on a set of train tracks in Brookline
My cat was dead, I remain a failure.
All of these definitive statements feel so fixed
I don’t want to indulge in a moment of self pity or self loathing, I don’t want to wrench my skin just to see the liquid bleed from my pores in a satisfying ache
I don’t want to fail, but if I do fail,
Which I have,
(it’s okay)
I want to be immersed in a culture that lets me know that there will be more options
I took a quote off my dashboard a few weeks ago,
the one that said, “I am not afraid to fail,
I am afraid of running out of chances to fail;”
or something like that.

Probably that’s why
Or probably something else
Some weird karmic universe shit
Some quirk of brain synapses
Maybe some day they’ll open me up and find out exactly what went wrong
Or maybe some day they’ll evaluate us on a more humane scale
I don’t want to have to feel bad for failing.
I don’t want to go through my journals (like I just did) and read about how badly
I made myself feel
I wanted to be done
I can be finished if I choose,
I can fail on my own time.


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