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I wear him silently. It's been two years. But somehow, he still racks my bones.
Anger is a heavy emotion. I wear it silently. I think too often. My mind is riddled with age old anxieties, of not being enough.
For him. For my mother and father. For my sister. For myself.
Where does it end? When do I forget about the freckle, neatly placed on his top lip? How I fit like a puzzle over him? I wonder if he thinks of me from time to time.
I hope I haunt him, the way he haunts me.
Did it crush him when I filled his void so soon? It crushed me.
I often think I am the issue. I should save people from my path of hellish destruction.
But I continue to fill The Void.
**** in da feels, i dont even like u anymore tf.
M R White Sep 19
Mortality is a strange thing. I don't think of her often.
But when I do, she knocks me to my knees. Taking all the air out of my lungs. She's powerful and stoic. Who thinks of her when they are the top of the world?
Not one. But she's always there, to catch you when you're sinking into the floor. Painfully reminding you she's the only one who you speak to when the night is dark and cold.
She's tricky and sly.
Taking the old, but also the young,
a baby, hardly a week old.
a kid, barely a quarter of a century young.
How do I justify her actions? Why not me? I didn't ask for these growing pains. But again, nobody does. Nobody asks to be plucked from the Earth.
Why does she chose to ****** every beautiful being from this Earth?
Why is she so strange?
Perhaps, she must remind us that we are just mortals.
We are of this Earth, she is not.
She must remind us, because we often forget.
struggling with mortality, more than usual.
M R White Apr 15
What would your body feel like if you held the weight of someones life? If you felt every ache they ached? What if you ached enough as it is? Where would your line be drawn?
I have enough aches. I cannot combat yours, while I stick out a measly arm to keep mine at bay. There is too much hurt that plagues this earth. I cannot be responsible.
I cannot hold your life in my hands. They are too small.
I don't deserve that responsibility.
That responsibility is yours, and yours alone.
I regret making that action seem acceptable.  
I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner that I was in shambles under the weight.
You didn't deserve that.
I can only hope that you have learned a lesson. It might be a harsh one, but everyone needs at least one heart-crushing reality check.
I wish no ill-will upon you.
But I wish you the weight of a rock bottom.
Quit pitying yourself.
You are better than that.
I promise.
M R White Mar 20
i wish i could be better. i wish i could let thoughts flow from my head to my mouth. this is why i am a writer. i am in no way capable of having words flow out of my mouth with ease. there is always a second thought. i wish more people understood this affliction, not many do. i have always lived in my head a little too much. even as a little girl. i always thought too much, and never said enough. i think it's from people in my young age saying too much. having said too many empty promises. and being too irresponsible with their lips.

i would rather be irresponsible with a pen. at least it can be scribbled out or written too quick.
there is a reason i write nearly illegible.
M R White Feb 24
there is an ache that shutters down my spine and keeps my chest heavy. there are non-existent stones in my coat pocket. i know they are not real. yet they feel more real than anything i have ever held in my life. sometimes i file through my stones in my coat pocket. in search of an answer of why my body is so heavy with dread. i never really find an answer. maybe i'll find the answers in the bottom of the city lake. it is unknown if others ever found their answers. but maybe, they found their peace. and that is an eluding enough risk. i'll take a short walk with my stones shoved deep into my pockets. i might even swallow a few.
  Feb 19 M R White
annette
my mother sees purple
because purple lives on her flesh.

she has stains
from shoulders down.
they scatter across her back
like pressed grapes.
the juice squeezed out of them
to create a rich man’s wine.
they wrap around her legs
like grape vines.
pulling her closer to the ground
with each step.

she hides them.
when men approach her
she says
“quiero que me ames.
my body has rejected me
and even in the womb
i was mutating.”

the men love her face.
she is a woman who does not age.
they say to her
“tu eres morada.
to love yourself you must
accept the color.”
so they have all added
new shades of purple
to her body.

i think that is why
my favorite eyeshadow color
is purple.
es el color que mi mama ve cuando piensa en el amor.
M R White Feb 19
At times I fear I am just like my mother,
Irresponsible, corrupt, deceiving.
Going no where – fast.
Gathering too much of the bad genes in my body.
They range from,
Alcoholism,
Being dependent on any type of pill,
To being with controlling a spouse.
I have never seen my mother with a man that was good for her.
This is another looming fear, being under the thumb of controlling men.
I think things like that run down the bloodline.
It’s all I have seen as a kid,
A man has to be controlling to really be in love with you,
A man has to put you in your place to show you he cares,
A man has to fully support you,
strip you of anyway of being independent;
because that is love.  
It is scary, and you yield many red flags.
But something in me finds beauty in it.
I know this is horribly sick, I know this isn’t right.
But something about the fight, is so beautiful.
When you tell me I mean the world to you,
I believe it, I do.
But something else looms over my head.
And I’m not quite sure what it is,
but it is quiet and sly.
This is what I fear what my mother felt,
A looming fear over her head, not even realizing the weight.
This is what draws me in, I feel myself reeling closer, and closer
to this unsettling, but secure feeling.
A promise of a beautiful land to live on,
with a beautiful family and wonderful home.
A promise of a great life, but at what cost?
My own father? My family?
It seems odd that you would want to strip me of the man that raised me,
the man that molded me.
Of everyone near me that I have grown close to through the years.
Odd that you want to be my one and only.
Quite literally.
But something is so intriguing about you.
I can not help but tell myself that you are the one.
But again, at what cost?
This is my biggest fear, I do not want to inherit this gene from my mother.
I do not want the gene, of having
every aspect of my life needing to be controlled.
To be solely reliant on one human being,
and it not even be myself.
That is my fear.
To be merely dependent on you.
I love you, I love you so much.
And that is my fear, loving you more than myself.
And putting all my life on the back burner to please you.
I beg of you,
do not be that man.
Your envy is green as a sly snake, and it is evil.
And your anger, my god your anger, it is red as the devils horns.
But,
your love, compassion, and sensitivity,
is as warm and pink as the act of love making.
And love trumps all, does it not?
Your envy may be green, and anger red.
But your love is what makes me feel whole.
I love you, and understand,
I will give you all of me.
As long as it does not drain me.
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