Are you still there?
I'm tired, I want you out. But you are me and I can't escape.
You are dying, so slowly, please hurry up.
Who the fuck is I and who the fuck are you?
Regular life is ridiculous. It is about this isn't it?
This inbetween, this not knowing. But I fight it.
I want the ridiculous, I want the light, Ali's laugh, kitten purring in the lap.
My lap is so sore. I'm tired of being sore. Waiting for a possible burst. But hoping that it would then be over.
I mourn you but I wasn't sure I even wanted you, at least not all the painstaking work that comes with it, the enduring months of carrying you, the pain/border between life and death of delivery, the agonizing cries of a newborn and the responsibility of being its only hope.
I was terrified of you, but I wanted you, I romanticize you.
You are what you are, stuck, just like me. I'm so sorry I was stuck before you and I think I'm the reason for you sticking. I'm so sorry.
How will we survive? Can we transcend this?
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