left, unsaid

I started reading to escape the drudgery of

reality. started writing to halt the abyss

dwelling within from engulfing me. failed in

both cases. every word I say, I mean. and yet

like fluctuating voltage my need to talk diminishes

or overwhelms me over time - a wave function of fate.

friends and family have tagged me as anti-social

marxist, intellectual and gay - embroidered adjectives.

my only defense is that I still feel stuff - grief, fear,

pain and death - all sharpening their claws to hunt me

down. the goood fight has been lost hemingway and like

a bum alcohol has consumed my soul - no respite, defeat

after defeat after defeat.

I thought it'd always be hard talking about you -

the delusional season of mingling love and insanity

the misunderstanding, hypocrisy and lesbian tendencies

the suicide and shoddy funeral. "my story" as people've

come to dub it, has shortned from a night's yarn to a

3 minute shark tank pitch - where pathos and angst

don't rule the narrative anymore than hatred and

regret.

even now linkin park's "waiting for the end"

rings in my head just like half a decade ago -

crystal clear and bass-driven, full of shattered lyrics

and loneliness.

now the only question remains -

is my pain worth talking about?