but what is this sick nostalgia for a set in the future, where I sit under half-light and write poems like vomit? and hold my body still, not feeling like abysses but rather ethereal light. what is this mechanism that through synapses and electrical impulses makes my mind shiver thinking of canary yellow? I want a romance, you see. to make something better out of myself. but I can not carry the past with me like a bridal veil

and then the feeling of

never

ever

being good enough.