i was reading camus
for the millionth time
and it hit me like a bottle of wine
that i am one of those people

i didn't just happen to be wearing black
and feeling up about feeling down
imagining how no one would save me if i was to drown
in a pool of late-night diner ketchup

explaining to a fake blond how suffering purifies
the absurd experience of sexual intercourse
and that love is not a tight-ass knight on a white horse
but a noble project that can only be born out of the shadows of death

the hum of a fan continued dutifully
i closed the book, removed the bookmarks
no point squeezing the brain wounds for the sharks
of unmanageable fear, uncertainty, and exhaustion