My tolerance builds up,
Walls three heads high.
I wait for my fishes to rot,
So I can relish in all the ugly
And bad.


I put on the new hunt
For all my friends to taste,
To tear them apart, shape them in a way they want,
Only for them to tell me their wants and,
Hell, even dislikes, hates, nightmares—
I will take them all.
Put my everything on the table,
Where I only put high cards,
While others have hands of full houses, flushes, and royals,
Only for my own fish to rot away.
Stuff my mouth and feel the moss in my lungs,
My mouth full of diseases—
I don’t even like eating fish anyway,
But I cannot complain,
When all I have been taught is to patch things up
And never whine.


My love will be consisted of my flesh, my blood,
My limbs, my intestines,
And I will leave nothing for myself,
Because that is what I have always known,
And what it should be like.


I can hunt fish well,
I do not eat them nor want them dead,
I even adore them alive.
That is why all of my friends are fond of seafood—
I hunt for love I cannot allow myself to get.