A Pulse

Sometimes I google

My worst fears and sometimes I

Search for porn of my

Traumas and sometimes I think

All of my fetishes are based on

Triggering something. Either a

Pulse in my pants or a

Pulse in my forehead I am

Seemingly addicted to

Driving myself mad. I know

Even if I had a bigger dick I would be

Unsatisfied, I know

If I’d been born a man I would wonder

What being a woman was like.

I know I am enough and I know

I am yearning for something

I can’t get enough of. The same way

Everyone is, the same way

Hoarding money is understandable

Hoarding love, hoarding pain, hoarding poems

Is understandable.

Alas I cannot understand why I would continue to

Google some of the things I do–

It must be out of a desire for certainty, a

Constant lust for truth. A pulse

In my veins to tell me I’m alive, a

Pulse in my heart to make me want

To thrive, and a more menacing pulse

In my left eye, where the pressure

Bludgeons me from the inside.


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