blunted

blunted

we’re all working so furiously,

to take the sting out of life,

blunting our edges,

with drugs,

or drink,

or working late under artificial light,

or buying more

than someone else we imagine having more,

or eating,

or driving so fast

the thought of death gives us a sense of living,

or filling ourselves

with the blood, guts and clamour of television,

or fighting

outside a rain sodden takeaway,

or sweating our way to children,

with people we no longer know,

or relationships,

that hurt

only slightly less than lonely does.