When I am not apathetic, I am falling to pieces.
I pick my limbs from the ground daily
Because they casually detach from my body.
No blood sprays. The openings are still as gelatin. These pieces
Are falling from regret. I find I often live in it,
More so than I deny myself to live in. It is an ironic reciprocation,
This exchange of regret for mangled minds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem