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She’s Just Like Me

And I hate me.

By Joke MarfskyPublished 6 years ago 2 min read
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I was lit in the midst of twilight when she told me she loved me. I was lost in the haze of it all, this indecipherable language she was babbling in.

You see It wasn't the first time she had made promises to me.

But, Hell I hardly even know who she was. We had barely even met, although it feels like she has known me for ever, every quivering inch.

Maybe it's the drugs. But She seems like-able.

at the same time she seems a bit overbearing, she seems just like me and that means she's too much.

And Jesus, I hate me, and people who are too much like me; so I'm most likely not going to like her. Not to the extent I'm going to want to promise myself to her, ya know?

Like if I don't even want to spend the rest of my life having to be stuck with myself then why would I want to couple myself up with someone who is exactly fucking like me? Amirite, or amirite?

Soft whispers about how we would never have to walk through hell alone again as long as we held each other's hands. As long as we sold ourselves to this night shift together.

The way she spoke to me was in backwards actions, reactionary glances, shifted tonality, regrettable notions.

Nothing is straightforward with her. Not now... Not ever.

You see she wasn't like the rest of the girls around. She made my hands tremble. Like a butterfly knife to the stomach.

The most crushing blow was the fact that I didn't have reciprocated feelings for her. No matter how much she swore that as long as I was with her I would have no more pain. Alone; we would be together, without this nonsensical—tomfoolery of midnight voices and quivering thought through the night with racing ideations of suicidal tendencies and the inability to cope with lose or my own cyclical insanity

She asks me to take her hand,

She says it'll all wash away,

She says it'll all wash away,

The way the tide rolls away the foot prints, the way the lysergic acid removes the foot prints of demons who have no right to traverse the perverse remote sections of the most cavernous secluded thoughts, or the psylicibin crumbles away the hateful ghosts hauntings. Like the mdma allows the soul back into this temple we call a body and let's us move in these limbs we call our own. Like handfuls of hydrocodone and flexorall and OxyContin just to try to make the pain go away. Like the crystals we cover ourselves in because we feel the energy in both them and the earth.

She asks me to take her hand.

-I ask her her name-

She asks me to take her hand. And I do.

She says to call her

-Anxiety-

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Joke Marfsky

NE poet. 26. Aspiring filmmaker. Bartender by trade. Mentally inverted metro-pan/asexual.

📷@jk.marv 🐥@marfsky

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