there’s a motherfucker in me
who still believes in people.
he’s quiet.
sits in the corner
smoking the last of the good weed,
shaking his head
while I call old friends traitors
and watch the country circle the drain
like it’s a fucking game show.
he’s soft.
not weak
just tired of the noise.
he doesn’t raise his voice
but I know he’s still in there
because every time I say
“fuck them all”
he doesn’t clap.
he remembers the nights
we stumbled through mud
shoes ruined,
friendships still intact,
before politics turned us into
something else.
something harder.
uglier.
there’s a motherfucker in me
who wants to believe
we can come back from this.
he still writes letters
I never send.
still thinks
someone out there
is listening.
but I keep him down.
press the pillow
soft and slow
so I can keep surviving
without him getting in the way.
he's not dead.
just gagged.
and some nights
I hear him sobbing
while I doom scroll
and load another bowl
to forget
what it means
to still care.