Nothing Remarkable

Hello, death.

I suppose I am a bit

Obsessed with you

I am obsessed with

You in every possible way

I am obsessed with you

The way that I am obsessed

With absolutely everything

I am preoccupied with

The inevitable ways in which

Your failures cause me

Incredible pain.

I would like to become

Not-obsessed with you

If that is at all possible

But I worry that it

Just isn’t in the cards for me–

I am obsessed with

Literally everything

Indiscriminately

I worry that I am supposed

To love you

And want you

The way that I love and want things

That are bad for me, like cake–

And for you to always be

Not on the same page

As me

About just about everything

I suppose I am supposed to want you

As a sort of metaphor

For living, I am supposed to

Want something

That will never reciprocate

The way that I want or need it to do so

I want to be

Satisfied

But I suppose

The greatest disappointment of all

Would be to finally

Embrace you, and feel

Nothing remarkable.


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