I am
unwell.
Fingers feverishly
unfurl
strands of my beard
only to reunite moments
later–a nightly
ritual.
Somewhere in stillness
secretes a heaviness that feels
hand-crafted,
artisanal.
The agony of happiness is
no longer my burden.
Inhale.
Forced reminders from peers
that I too was once of love–
Inhale.
Fuck. This is beyond me.
Identify by my isolation.
Inhale. Inhale. Inhale.
Poetry Is Black 