Godless Friend

It’s late.
I wonder why you
Godless friend
why it stings
to roll and watch
you muck yourself
with your own love juices–
how it’s only
and not wrong
to you.

There is no love
in sex for you.

No ‘love making.’
No children, no family,
only with convenience
and it’s stinging
how I call you friend.
It is your being.
But roll in the mire
and cut out your heart
and don’t look confused
when I start
to cry.

So much blood.
So much pointless dirt.

It’s all

where are you even going?

When your body
and its actions
don’t mean a thing?
Because, well,
you don’t believe it.

Just keep cutting past
each rib, each cartilege,
your heart will still
be beating,
because you don’t feel
a thing.
It’s just a heart.
It’s just blood.
Once you’ve seen enough,
you get use to it.

And what am I?
What is this care I hold
for such an action?
A frivoulous dream?
A fantasy?
A fairytale?
A particular interest
in family and children?

Oh, but it’s only lifestyle.
It’s only belief.
Because we’re all happy.
We’re all right.
We’re all skipping through daisies
and popping pills
and vomiting up
our very intestines
all the way down
to our toenails.

Don’t ask me
for proof.
For logic.

Just let me cry.

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