It’s the fullness
worse than hunger,
that ends in
throwing up;
the itch
more awful
than pain—the red
from scratch and
blood;
it’s when losing’s
more searing
than winning,
the drunk of
could-have-been.
It’s when living
is grimmer
than death,
hovering above the
ellipse, where heaven
is hotter than
hell.
It’s the heart-
beat from a kiss
you never got,
from the one
in 7th grade,
the despair
when you’re
rejected,
feel the stake
inside your chest;
the smack
upon a corpse
which causes envy,
the coffin
much softer
than your bed,
where every
dream’s a nightmare,
a ghost more
corporeal
than flesh;
a smirk the
mortician crafted—
even broader than
your smile ever was.
Andreas Gripp
August 14, 2024
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