Nothing

I’m not something.
I’m not it,
I’m not it.
I’m not it.
Why does it hurt most
to speak the
feeling of indescribable
unnameable
permanent forever
grasping.
Desperate to be the tail of
some severed worm
and I’m the worm.
Get ahead of it
as if any memory is a real thing.
Time is an eraser, no not healing,
no just passing time is a nothing.
Is a type of nothing.
I am not even the future I work so hard to tumble into.
I am just the second,
right now every key I choose to hit on this keyboard
tic
tac
tic
tacking
and
no
I don’t want to be dead because
that destroys nothing.
Happenings don’t unhappen and truly
deeply
a future is a nothing.
It can’t be erased or avoided or discreated.
A future is not sliced apart.
Or shattered or in any sense destroyed in death.
I kill nothing except what I consider myself to be.
And oh
I can change that.
By saying anything.
It is my decision if family stays a bad word.

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