Poetry

Chill Days, 30 (335.)

As I continue swiping right
and even swiping left,
the thought that fills my mind is
“Please fucking kill me,”
and I slow down a little to acknowledge
that I don’t actually want to die, it’s way too soon,
but the incessant search for real feelings
in a propped-up world of sleek veneers
and wannabe catchy bios
leads to burnout real fast.
I’m sick of looking for love.
I wish love could appear, out of the blue,
a flower in their hand
and a walk on their mind.
Plans for coffee later, now that’s divine.
But love isn’t something granted, and it
shouldn’t be a given:
love is work, continual effort,
and it’s good to care about someone that much.
I like to be alone more often than not,
but solitude and loneliness
are very different modes of being,
and this abject lonely cave
leaves me feeling stifled,
wanting trees.
The sun will shine on me again,
but first,
I’ve got to walk.

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