Compassion

As the rain stutters rhythms and melodies
without announcing the words which follow,
for only I can fill them in, it feels terribly, blindingly
confusing to fall over the pavement with drunk,
longing eyes and disgorging in front of my mother
who looks at me with disappointment guiding her
breath and her eyes; and I think I’m supposed to
apologise for being obtuse in my gestures and words,
but I can’t stop wanting to cry and laugh away all
that I have become tonight. I’m breathing away the
cold night with my dress incompatibly showing more
of my marked neck (a scar of sorts, from last night
when I thought I could choke myself), and as you
look at me with disgrace and incomprehension, I start
to lose belief in heaven and hell, for it makes more sense
to be trapped in between where you have to lose your
senses to feel like you have them to lose; for if there was
a heaven and hell, I wouldn’t quite be a hopeless vagabond,
searching the streets for pennies from people who’re dead
and lost, comforting those who’ve burnt souls, and being
compassionate about serial killers because in all the reality
I am and can be, I’m none but all of them, I’m one but none.

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