My inspiration for this piece came from pg. 247-248 of Peace Like a River: “You can embark on new and steeper versions of your old sins, you know, and cry tears while doing it that are genuine as any.”
Why do I keep returning to my own vomit?
Why am I not repulsed by the growing stench of myself?
A creature stupid enough to wallow in my own feces.
Shouldn't I be more afraid of this thirst?
Shouldn't I be more afraid of this darkness?
Shouldn't I be more afraid of this avalanche?
Tears are ever-shackled to my face
So long as I refuse to submit to a cure .
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