When I’m not starving

(And speeding death up)

I’m flooded with

“Why are you here?”

(And speeding death up)

Or sometimes it’s both

(Starving and why are you here)

And then life feels like an ongoing major crisis

Which seems fictional

But

I thought I was writing non-fiction this entire time

—now I’m lost in between the two

(I don’t know what to call that)

I don’t know who or what or how to hold on to

Everything is bemired

(I can’t get a grip to things I can’t see or feel)

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