Laced With My Doubt

(no beers in) I lack a lot of the traits people typically define as human and on occasion it haunts me

when georges bataille wrote, “no greater desire exists than a wounded person’s need for another wound” & when gillian flynn wrote, “a child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort” & when ocean vuong wrote, “sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you’ve been ruined” & when lisa m. basile wrote, “did you inherit a sickness? did you blame god? do you believe in god? do you believe in yourself? are you still on fire? did you ever put out the fire?” & when stephen a. guirgis wrote, “why didn't you make me good enough so that you could’ve loved me?”

what have you ever gotten out of gazing at your wounds? it seems like you turned the wound into scripture, which can’t be what you intended. it seems like you’d break your own bones to form a new posture around your pain. it seems like it must be getting real confusing using only blood as proof that the world touched you back