It Still Hurts Though

I feel like texting poems like
how I guess you sext
the potential friend
on the screen…
You can see what’s next:
My companion: imagination.
My comfort: non-existent.
Another wandering path
of pitiful persistence.
I’m sorry for myself
lying alone in bed
staring at my phone
sideling pillow ‘neath my head

yet this is but a slice of life
compounded to a whole

depressions suck and pull

I’m happy in my sadness;
alone in isolation;
looks like the key to sleep
comes from some maturation.

My opinion of myself
isn’t built on theirs or yours.
My opinion of myself
stems from worth in chores.

I choose this temporary lonliness
affirming authenticiy.
I don’t text false idols
who mirror insecurity.

It still hurts though

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