love’s other face clocks mine in a moshpit

i tether myself to myself,

but im not solid ground.

roots extend throughout my scalp,

coercing my brain into a state of panic.

the venue is empty, we are already dead.

i mourn a loss that hasn’t happened yet,

but its weight crushes me.

concerned faces extend their empathy-

but i cannot reciprocate without causing damage.

plucking roots out of my manifolds is excruciating, and im not sure that i should.

do i let this plant grow?

i take comfort in knowing this has already happened