He writes about me
because he knows I like it
or to get out of his own mind
though I can’t imagine mine is a relief
I’m redundant
I fret and marinate and I make
things dismal
things the heart-weary understand
but tire of
I tire of me
too
My writing is compulsive
not compelling but compelled by
compulsion
I know it’s right
a version of what’s right
anyway
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