ashley dunn

    Albert K. Ashes-Bury Is a Rock, an Island

    When I leave the bar and the books I lie about
    I see I am not here to be liked—to have friends.
    I don’t want friends. Who has friends? Who wants to be liked?
    I am only liked when I am nothing like I am, gifting them

    what they want, not being the all that is rotten of me.
    It isn’t human. It isn’t human to be simply rotten, or

    disliked—or yourself: the pit of your bag of bones. We lie
    about this—all our flaws; not authentically us. Being liked,

    being nothing of yourself, having friends: that is
    being human, and so false, and so flawed. But I am rotten and real and alone.

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