By Ashley O’Hare
Casually causing casualties
Creeping to catastrophe
I cannot call this love—
It is nothing more than chronic pain.
No amount of wishing could create joy
Out of constant misery and toxic fumes.
Maybe the cosmos conspired against me
To come up with circumstances
I am no capable of surviving in one piece.
Cannot be healed with compassion.
Some things can not be prevented.
Sometimes there is a need for consistent chaos.