talking 2 your dysthymia

He tells me to prise open white bone/ take an axe to an edge of jagged cut snow/ burrow into the ground to hibernate and live

within that line.

His sentences are disjointed/ he’s a rabbit with it’s foot stuck in a trap/ fever’s grip: “I feel like I’m running out of time- I feel like

I’m running-”

Can’t physically reach him through a receiver/ but he knows that now we’re looking down the barrel of the same gun/ I can’t speak his enemy’s language,

and he won’t translate.

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talking 2 your dysthymia

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