urvile

I'm so eager to disappoint,
striving to race to the bottom.
It's so secure.

Poking, jabbing,
and cutting,
past,
and present.

Consumed,
Scraped,
burned,
inside out.

Every bit,
screaming
little deaths
of sacrifice.

It's predictable,
to not have
or want
a future.

Some hurts are like a
mothers arms,
a safe harbor.