it's hot.
it's hot and i am terribly sick.
i miss our love.
i am thin and pale.
lovesick and sick.
i have no trust.
a shell of a man.
just happy enough to die.
will you sit with me while i'm sick with fever? hold my hand?
i love no one i have nobody.
a memory that will pass:
we left in the middle of class,
to the school field,
we found a bucket of black paint
and you stuck your hands in all the way
and left your hand prints on the walls
and we left in my car to my house
and enjoyed each others sex.
we fell into it.
and.
no this will not pass.
it's one more for me to pine over.
one more to make me wonder where you are who you're with whether you're happy or not when i'll see you again when i will be happy when you will be happy if you despise me or not whether you enjoy going out and fucking others whether you enjoy others more than me. i fucking hate it. i really do.
yesterday i said to a stranger
"i was right, then i was wrong, and then i was right again"
and the stranger said
"that's the story of my life man: i was right, then i was wrong, and then i was right again"
the shadows of hiroshima victims are still imprinted on walls from when the bomb dropped.
and my shadow is burned into this diary.
my shadow is burned, and it trails me like a hunter.