Pouring bitter ink on electronic pages,
Trying to extinguish this bulimia of love
Which is annihilating me.
I thought I was an adult, and I am a fetus.
A chrysalis.
Larva without cocoon,
I write to expel this rotten smell,
To feebly delay my delirium.
There are days I asphyxiate with myself,
With these inner parts
That want to escape
And I do not know how to help them.
I wish I could spit them out,
Dosing them.
I wish I could delicately savour my Ego to make it more acceptable, but I just vomit it with violence when I most need me.
Because yes, I have moments I need myself and instead of cuddling up as a grown fetus,
I expand myself,
Trying to find me somewhere else.
It is useless to say that it is impossible.
I would prefer to implode if I could.
If I could I would like to be jealous of my essence,
Instead of offering it to a world incapable of grasping the truth of things.
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