I’m sorry. I saw the drowning
look in your eyes – the one
I know so well from
the inside out, the one that says
everyone thinks everything
is fine but it’s not okay, I’m
not okay
– and didn’t throw
you a lifeline. I know
how it feels to be the only one
in the room who’s holding
on to a grudge because it’s
been with you so long it feels
like a part of you, so that to
let it go would mean losing
something of your identity,
even though everyone else thinks
you’re punishing the person
for old dead deeds and why
can’t you just get over it
already. you can’t. you’re
not ready. you might not
ever be ready. and he doesn’t
deserve your forgiveness.

you warm yourself
by the fire of your hatred.
I know.

the lost hour

at 10:56 p.m. tonight,
my time, you
posted a thing. so far,

but. I happened to notice
that the time stamp says
11:56 pm. are you posting
from the future?
am I secretly
in another time zone?
I did travel, but
I’m pretty sure we’re
still in the same slice
of the pie that is
Eastern Standard

so where
did that hour go?
I’m sure
the answer is something
mundane and annoyingly
prosaic, like the servers
are located
in the middle of the
Atlantic Ocean, or
some developer
fucked up somewhere,
but I like to pretend
that that lost hour
was a magical one.

in my mind,
I dreamed a million
worlds of dreams
in that hour,
and then forgot them
because I went back in
time to the present.

I know. I’m wrong.
but let me have my


I’m sorry
that I interrupt so very often
in conversation.
if anyone takes more than
two seconds
to think about their contribution
to the discourse, I feel compelled
to speak for them, thinking I can
read their minds
and guess what they
are going to say. I know
it’s wrong and rude
and everyone hates it
but I can’t seem
to stop myself from doing it.

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