I want to be wrong more than right.
I hope I’m wrong about so many things.
I inhale many possible outcomes every minute,
so many that I can’t even taste them anymore,
and exhale apologies with and for every breath.
What are my lungs doing?
Why do they feel this way, hating me?
Why must they tell the world, over and over,
“I’m so sorry I’m here”?
.
July 29, 2025
~ 4 a.m.
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