notes from a man who has given up on sleep

a headache
just after midnight
as i try to remember why
i ever started writing
at all

a day spent walking
empty streets from a
forgotten part of my life

and i am tired of the past
and of my job like an
impossible weight
and i am tired

the house is old
the windows distorted
and i’m afraid of the day
my son begins to build a wall
between us

i’m afraid he will not be
able to
escape being my son

and this scorched taste
in my mouth is all i’ve kept of
the five thousand wasted days
spent trying to save the
woman who loved pain
from herself

or maybe i can finally

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