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POETRY | SELF | RELATIONSHIPS | WRITING

I Hate Math

So, I cling to words.

If
Heartbreaks
Equal Lovers,
Circumstance
Divides hope,
My net gain
Is zero.

I determine
Precise seconds
In which
They taught me
How
To hate myself,
It’s
Fifth.
Fifth grade.

Divide
Mind
From heart,
Lust
From flesh,
I amount to
Only
A seven-tonne
Pile of scrap.
Destined,
For landfill.

Aim a
Compass
(That’s math, right?)
To pinpoint
Where we
Debauch
Our flesh, as
Beasts do.
Clawing,
Pawing,
Gnawing.
I locate
One.
One sweet memory,
Frozen,
Achromatic,
Drenched
In
Melancholic desire.

Add
My isolation
To his,
We are without
Melody.
The decibels
Of
Desperate silence
Amplify,
Until speakers
Blow.