Untitled – Priyasha G

December 3, 2025

They used to cut MDMA with sassafras, he says like
this is some holy preliminary fact.
Sweeter roll, softer comedown.
In pieces, half-thought and half-damage, says
there was a night when he couldn’t tell whose blood it was
and that he didn’t care. That its
absence felt like a kind of education. The
world got simpler. He misses that softness, a
wound warm with its own light

I imagine him decades ago, younger and
sharper and meaner, in love with the
wrong kind of cruelty and the right kind of attention. Lit
from the inside, serene in a way that feels
wrong in the lungs

Anger is a quiet religion. Efficient and
smaller than regret. Sometimes I see
the relics, wooden spoons cracked at the
neck, belts stretched past the logic
of a waist. He tells his stories the way other
people pray, each word an apology to
something nameless

I used to think the bad things made
me interesting. Then I thought they made me real. Tonight
I just think they make me loud inside

He taps his chest twice
Thud thud
He doesn’t sound pleased.
He does that usually. Talk in the negatives,
what he didn’t do, what he never meant, when he
held back.
It always lands heavy in the air, a reminder
that restraint is another kind of violence
pressed in slow motion.

I wasn’t always like that, he said once.
I believe him, I believe it
doesn’t matter