gmail.

by epi

scrolling through pages of emails
eyes catch “filter messages like these”,
think, what if my brain could… throw this
out & [stop, interrupted]

“you wanna know what people inject themselves with in prison?
pens.”
pens? what would make a person…

what could you need so badly you’d be willing to push
poison into your bloodstream…?

my father.

i’ve stopped, realizing my filter’s broken, but
i want to ask them anyway… why? what makes a person
want to make a dying body die faster?

“do you smoke?”
sometimes i wish i could lie.
“yes.”
sometimes i wish lies would be the truth, but
it’s a choice i make, so what makes a person hate
the people who love them
so much that they try to leave them even quicker
than what comes so quickly naturally?

i don’t ask anything (“filter messages like these”).
but for the thousandth time a thought,
“i should quit drinking, smoking, everything”
crosses my mind.
“filter”
i’m asking myself now, “what makes a person…”

the silence. i’m swimming in it,
and i’ve never wanted
to do anything bad so badly.

the silence, the fear of it, the desire to leave it
it all makes a person…

i want to tell him, “dad, i could’ve filled the space
around you though”. i was made to never stop
talkingthinkingmovingdancing. “i’m too loud i’m told.
but maybe i was just made for you. loud enough
to fill the space for you.
i could’ve filled the space for you.
i could’ve kept the silence, the ghosts, the monsters at bay
for you.
i would’ve, if you’d asked me to.” so what makes a person…

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