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it is as if
the act of living and the act of dying are the only
verbs we’ll ever do–and in doing so we will
never know if we are alive and slowly dying,
or if we are living to eventually die, or if there
is even a difference or a point in asking because
to live and to die are intransitive–actions lacking
object: performed alienations. Empty fucking
signifiers. I will live and then I will die–writing
of this dispossession; knowing my words will
never make an open door out of death.

And in every word I speak, in every
second I sustain steady eye contact
with you, there is some part of me, some
fiber of my being that I over-compensate
in attempt to make up for all the voids
in my chest, all the interstices that formed
in place of all the stolen parts of me.
I am so unbearably vulnerable
and it’s people like you that partake
in my hollowing out, a caving in of the self,
towards a praxis of breaking down [again].
This is the shutting
down of my damned
desires and rise of a terrible estrangement.

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