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A Way Out of This.

Builds up her costume
all her life. Dons her masque
through labor, with pride.

Claustrophobic now, suffocating,
starving and dehydrating.
This game is draining her dry
like a mosquito of the soul.

Needs a fresh spring, sustenance,
a place to run free and naked
passed the skin, through blood and bone,
beyond the marrow. In another life,

we could have been partners in crime,
nurturing each other, not just
struggling to survive, but keeping
one another alive, truly alive.

Nothing here was ever meant to be.
After all, who is meaning?
Nothing has a purpose or reason.
Who is plotting the course?

No destiny to be found
here, we all make our own fate
by asserting free will.

Relinquishing
choice is still a choice,
and so here we are, reaching out
to one another
as we are caught tight in our own

vices, aching for the other
to release the pressure, hope
diminishing as time presses on.

What is one to do
once the other is gone?
It’s like a toss up, a roll of the will-die,

what will, where will
one go once the other has inevitably succumb,
taken their own life?

There’s got to be a way out of this.
We’re dying in our own, separate ways.
Someone, point in a fucking direction.

There’s got to be a way
out of this…

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