There’s a feeling of eager like a binge eater
to talk out all the inner seethe in a bark,
to consume all the voices before you fume;
knowingly that no one would hear it willingly,
so rather you keep all inside within the dark.
Skipping talks of charity is an act of self austerity;
today’s chatter is tomorrow’s beggar –
selling one’s dignity for empty ears’ indignity
is just as bad like sleeping in the cry-soaked bed:
awkward for a minute, then more woeful afar.
This is a reason why I avoid such treason
to start a small conversation that would split me apart;
today is boastful, tomorrow’s awful:
only this what I saw, so
why just not stock things inside the already breaking heart.
No matter how I try to keep this law; however
there’s always a popping up stranger exchanger
who wants to know about me more
as if I myself could just slightly understand myself –
as if I could bring her more than a binger talk:
This is your fault stranger, you called the binger;
now, listen to my thoughts that I myself don’t know,
listen like a psychic, or rather like a sidekick
while I start sharing volcanoes from inside my heart;
listen well at our first and last conversation that now splits us apart.
Tomorrow, I’ll try forgetting all, just as you do all,
forgetting my venting as well as the funny inventing
that there’s someone who listens without it ends;
and I will be forgetting myself, remembering the law:
I’m alone with the voices of pain, and binge talks are only to prove I’m alone.