nothing is real.
nothing I feel
is anything

tangible,
physical,
understandable.

a document
won’t fix it.

a year to bury
the regret,
the secret,
in hopes to evade
the damnable

Why?

I’m too scared to hear it.
I’m too scared to answer.

‘cause it’s not fucking real;
there’s no situation,
no rationalization—

I’m just a tired mess,
waiting for my sentence.