I am using the candles on my
twenty-first birthday cake
to burn “grow up” into my knees.
I am in the front row at a show,
realizing that if I heard this song two years ago,
I would have thought about you.
Thinking about you takes effort now.
You no longer pour out when I open my mouth.
These days, if I want to bleed you out,
I have to grab a knife.
I am carrying such weights of absolute sadness that I must at any moment be dragged down into the deepest sea and the person trying to seize or even “rescue” me would give up, not from weakness, not even from hopelessness but from sheer annoyance.
Franz Kafka, Letters To Milena. (via theburnthatkeepseverything)