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ode to never having enough time by Alana Dunlop

Updated: Feb 4



i don’t know what to do with

everything i know about you.

about the cialis, about the

depression, about

the open-mouthed tension

in my stomach that can’t

reconcile what it means to

stay and what it means

to leave

when you’re giving me the option.

my thighs can’t recognize that

every time you touch them

it might be the last time your

fingers ever come in

careful proximity to mine.

i’m not mad at you

I’m mad at the universe that rips things

away from me like a child

that wants a toy.

the universe that never gives me enough time

that brings you into my orbit when there is

no possibility for us, when there is nothing

but hoping your therapist has mercy on me,

nothing but a transparency that torments me

because maybe I don’t want to see

your insides yet.

i’m not fighting you i’m fighting this

part of me that can’t let go

of anyone who i have selfishly imagined

a future with; who i have pulled into my

conception of the universe,

affectionately gave you a nickname and

memorized your birth date and

told you about my teenage self that

would’ve been so proud to see the outline

of the city from mont-royal,

been privy to the sounds your stomach makes.

i can’t fix the part of you that wants to

die.

maybe that’s why i feel so strained to take off running.

i think that you might need me,

in a vacuum,

in a timeless shapeless feelingless room

where my blood isn’t on your hands.

where my hands aren’t in a knot

grabbing for something that hasn’t materialized.

I don’t know if i’m with you for you

or for me

and fuck, i’d be able to answer that if

only we’d been given enough

time.



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