The second it starts it's all pervasive.
You're infected, a biological relapse.
The dissipation of rage through masochism.
You wonder if people can tell your brain lingers
where it shouldn't be to begin with.
They test for everything else
and make you use protection,
if that's what you're worried about.
But the mirror looks different
and your friends are boring
and your heart won't stop ticking.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem