propitiate.

it is.
like a cloud of damp, heavy sand
that flooded my brain
and drenched my senses.
the fog tightened
and my default reaction
is to succumb.
even more now,
i know that
there is nothing
to chase.
nothing to grasp
or yearn.
the sickness is a comfort
grown so by the
relentless company
and insatiable appetite.
your desolate need
fickle yet desperate;
i cannot abide.
i cannot propitiate.
it should be a human right
if you know
this is not where you belong.
instead, like a prison,
like hell –
yet at least in hell,
the suffering is expected,
the deep pain is accepted.
and no one will try to
change your mind.

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