I am in the habit
Of hanging on so tightly that I forget myself,
Dislocating limbs to stay attached to things
Loathsome and lovely in equal measures,
And better left alone.
There is a variety of sadness
That makes itself home within my guts
Clinging to my entrails and growing like mold,
Devouring new feelings of love,
And covering my insides with rot.
the Honest Poet 