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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