Inconsequential

She is inconsequential,

that means you don’t have to talk to her.

I am inconsequential

and that’s why you won’t.

Maybe she did use you,

but maybe I needed you

ribbons of light for thighs

are not poetic.

There’s nothing poetic about

The other half

She is just ‘not nice’

I could never see through

the moss for eyes

and I could never make

Up what was in your mind

But I am written all over

Every single person

Sometimes I’m not convinced

by my own pulse

Because sometimes

I can’t feel anything

But I can be dissolved by

a look or

a word

the rocks in my belly

The paper weight,

the acid that makes my pen bleed

I won’t be able

To write for myself

If my inconsequential passing of feelings

and hatreds, and loves, and losses

Write for me.

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