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1d · 466
The Price
The price of being alive
Is coping with the memories of what I nearly
Didn't survive.
Jul 30 · 90
The Shadow
I am a figment of your imagination,
A specter of the night,
The shadow passing as the sun rises.
My reality is intangible,
As fleeting as daylight hours.
Do not search for me in the dark hiding places.
You will only feel the breeze of my existence,
Fluttering by unnoticed.
Jul 12 · 89
My poetry longs for the disorder,
For the way mania smells like stardust
And tastes like bubblegum clouds.
It craves the buzzing energy like angry bees
Or champagne bubbles in my bloodstream.
Poetry finds beauty in the depression,
In the way sunrises fade to gray
Or food turns to ash in my mouth.
Poetry does not care that 1 in 5
People with bipolar will take their own life.
It is only searching for more syllables to intertwine.
I must be concerned with the consequences,
Diligent in my course of action.
It is the first time in my life my poetry and I do not agree.
Stability may not be poetic,
It is hard won and jagged edges,
But I would not trade it for syllabic symphonies.
I hope stability will be mine to keep.
Jul 8 · 137
Find me infinity
So we can travel there together.
May 24 · 271
Soul Sunshine
Sometimes I wonder
If those who've never experienced the grueling lows of depression
Truly experience the moment
When the sun catches your soul in just the right way
And you finally feel warmth in your bones.
May 4 · 388
My heart yearns for the way
I feel in her presence,
For the candlelit warmth
And melted wax flowing over my soul
As it casts out this winter's dying embers.
My heart yearns for her heart
Like two strands longing to be coiled into rope,
Stronger together.
My skin longs for her softness,
For the gentle caress on valleys of skin.
My ears long for her 'I love you,'
And my mouth so desperately wants to say it back.
Sweet Love of mine, we are almost there.
May 3 · 195
There is no sanity in inhumanity,
No reason to reprehensible.
I should stop looking for answers
Were there were never any to begin with.
May 2 · 47
Night Time
Night time is how you know it's under your skin
When it slips in insidiously
Like a nightmare or memory
In the weird in between hours
When your hope is fast asleep
But your mind wide awake.
May 2 · 484
Mental Violence
I was frozen to the bed
When he reached inside me
With his hands and his staff
And stole something from me.
Yes, I was bleeding,
But he did not draw his knife.
It was fear that kept me immobilized.
His act, perpetretrated while I was mentally tied,
Has taken my ability to feel safe in my own body.
It has ruined dark corners and altered my mornings,
Left me feeling vulnerable and torn shreds through my psyche.
The **** of a partner ruined all intimacy.
His crime was not one of sheer physical brutality,
But an act of Mental Violence
That has forever altered me.
Apr 29 · 696
He should take care not to sunburn,
For he can no longer steal my skin.
Apr 27 · 782
The Hope Poem
They tell me to write a happy poem,
A joyous poem,
A lemon yellow sun and soft blue sky poem,
A hopeful poem, an inspiration poem,
An anything other than so much sadness poem.
I tell them my hope lies in the trenches
Where the muddy toil takes place.
My hope is *****,
Is often beaten down,
But it is resilient.
My inspiration does not come from blue skies.
It comes from watching strong women weather the storm.
My hope is inky black and pink underneath,
It needs armor.
Sometimes my hope needs a weapon, needs soldiers.
I am often fighting a war in my body,
And yes this war takes place under lemon yellow sun and soft skies.
They are beautiful,
But they do not make me feel hopeful.
My hope is that one day I will get to wash the mud off
And finally feel clean.
Apr 27 · 34
My life depends on the contents of an orange bottle.
Without it,
I am on a neurochemical rollercoaster,
Lap bar refusing to pull down.
As the apex of the loop nears,
I must hold on lest I fall and crack my head on the depression below.
Apr 15 · 105
I can touch my stability with the end of my pinky finger.
It dances on fishing string or careful drops in shallow water.
A deep breath in or a flick of my finger could upset the balance,
Sending me swinging again.
Apr 11 · 152
Grandmommy's Poem
Her fingers dance across the keys,
Creating perfect melodies.
Next to her, I sit young and eager
To please my loving and patient teacher.
She coaches me on how to place my hand.
How lucky am I to call her Grandmommy Anne!
Apr 10 · 332
There is thunder in my bones where you lay.
Your memories dissolve like salt into a wound.
To this day,
If anyone calls me 'Red,'
I will rain down like the storm cloud you always hoped I wasn't.
My collective tears will burst from the dam
Until not a spot on your soul is dry.
I will tear out the tendons, remove the connective tissues.
You wanted to make me yours,
To erase the personhood until I was pliable for your will.
To some extent, you succeeded.
Your memories are stored in my body, trauma.
The bleeding is internal, is not visible, is just as deadly,
But I have staunched the flow.
There is thunder where you lay in my bones,
Lightning where you touched me.
I am tearing you away tendril by sticky tendril.
I hope you feel the sting inside you.
This girl is not your object.
This girl is a hurricane.
This girl is the end of your world.
There are words for what you did,
****** assault, ****,
But they are not sufficient for the way
My psyche floated out of my skin.
You counted on the scars keeping me bound,
But you had only started the storm.
I am a thundercloud, a lightning goddess,
Made from the sun, wind, and ocean.
You called me 'Red' like my hair,
But I am 'Red' like my temper, like fire.
Try me once more, and I will teach you not to play games
With young girls.
Apr 9 · 26
A Man like That
He doesn't like a girl with a ***** mouth,
Wants to water you down and wash you out,
Make you change all the things about you,
Fill you to the brim with your own self doubt.
He swears he doesn't like to play any games,
But the only word on your tongue should be his name.
Little girl, you better run so fast
Because you'll never need a man like that.
You'll never deserve a man like that.
Apr 4 · 110
Granddaddy's Poem
Granddaddy Dan,
You were a man few in words
And large in heart.
You soared in a plane the open skies,
And now you've taken the final flight.
As I'm forced to say goodbye,
How I wish we'd spent more time,
But the hours we passed were a gift.
Sometimes love leaves no words
Other than "You'll be missed!"
Mar 23 · 382
The sins of one man
Cannot be washed away
By old age or suffering
When his shadow
Has touched so many who
Will bear his mark for
The rest of their lives.
She says, "It is sad to see an old man in prison."
I tell her my sadness lays
On the banks of the river
Filled with the tears of his survivors.
Their pain cannot be abated by him
Contracting a virus.
Mar 22 · 158
The only thing I ever learned to flirt with
Was danger.
Mar 6 · 402
At age two,
The strangers flocked to my mother,
Cooing over the stroller.
They ask, "How long does it take to curl her hair?"
My ringlets fall in strawberry spirals,
Making even Shirley Temple jealous.
She tells them they are merely freshly washed.
Who in their right mind curls a two year old's hair anyway?
At age four,
I am no longer encased in my protective stroller,
And humanity has taken tacit permission
To run their fingers through my strands at any given moment.
After all, I am only 2% of the world's population.
Is that not consent enough to touch my child's body?
Their hands are abrasive and painful to my autistic skin,
But I smile and twirl for them like the polite little girl that I am.  
Long before I knew the name,
I was taught that the world fetishizes redheads.
I was taught that being rare is forfeiting your right to your own body.
I'm 5 now, and the teachers tell me I have angel's kisses on my face,
That freckles are the touch of tiny winged souls upon my skin.
Young me shudders at the thought of seemingly hundreds of dead spirits caressing my cheek bones.
I did not ask the teachers about my freckles or comment on their presence.
I already know it is not my place to discuss my body.
That right is reserved for others.
I'm 8 years old the first time I hear the phrase "Carrot Top"
And 10 before I hear "Volcano Head."
At least the latter indicates I'm not to be trifled with.
We're playing the elimination game in class,
And "Stand up if you have red hair" is the equivalent of calling my name.
I'm 12 when "Ginger's have no souls" is suddenly hurled at me.
I wonder when I exchange "kissed by angels" for becoming a vampire.
Perhaps it's part of the transition?
This is the age of growing self awareness,
The age where it's really beginning to stick that I am alien and different.
I am so tired of being asked if I am adopted because my hair is red
But my entire family's is brown.
I tell them I get it from my grandfather.
I do not tell them that he is the one who used to drag my grandmother
Through the house by her hair
Or how his drunken rages would force my mom and her siblings
To crawl under their front porch in search of safety.
I do not tell them that my mom saw him shoot himself when she was 19
Or that she hasn't opened a tin of biscuits since.
Mother reminds me almost daily that I am the spitting image of him,
Leaving me wondering what else I might've inherited.
I touch my face in the mirror, haunted by the sins of a man I've never met but whose reflection I apparently share.
I write letters to his ghost, asking him if he understands this affliction.
Why do they touch me?
Why do they buzz like bees, these strangers on the street
Around my hair?
Why do they think it is acceptable to drink from my reserves when I am dying of thirst for oxygen and personal space?
I am 16, still naive in my social perceptions, often misunderstanding the norms.
Autism has accelerated my intellect but delayed my emotions.
I am licking a minion themed popsicle with childlike enthusiasm when mother snaps a photo.
I post it to my newfound Facebook account,
Proudly sharing my joy.
Over the course of a week, I receive more and more friend requests from unknown internet men.
I am confused until mom tells me my gleeful ice cream moment could be interpreted as simulating a *** act.
"But I am too young," I tell her. She smiles humorlessly.
She knew what I would soon learn.
At 17 I'm informed that "redhead" is a category on PornHub,
That my beautiful affliction is as it has always been,
A searchable object for other's gratification.
18, baby faced and lonely, He finds me.
I still get mistaken for a 12 year old and this 42 year old man finds me ****.
I wish I could say I knew better.
I wish I could say I ran as fast as I could,
But oh how naive was I to believe that he meant what he said when he told me he meant me no harm, he wanted nothing from me.
I now know his behavior is called grooming.
He whispered his nickname for me as he ***** my bleary eyed body.
"Red," he called me.
Red like my hair, like the first sentence out of his mouth at every gathering
"She's a redhead."
Red like my volcano, how he said he never wanted to see me angry.
Red like my personality, how he liked "a woman in charge,"
Which was synonymous with do all the emotional and physical labor.
It took me a year to break free of his tangled, twisted, traps.
I was today years old when the man in the car followed me on my way to school.
Armed with nothing but mace and the attitude to back it up,
I gave him the look of "You can come get me, but I swear you'll regret trying."
My hair like a siren call to all wayward souls.
They dock in my port.
Red hair means they will fetishize me from 2 to 4 to 8, 10, 16, 20,
And 100 years from now the bones and dust of these keratin strands
Will cry out from the ground I am buried beneath
In support of the next child blessed or cursed with this beautiful affliction,
And all others whose rarity is seen as permission.
Hear me now when I tell you
My hair is a warning.
This redhead is fully loaded,
Is angry, enraged, head fully lit, and heart on fire,
Tongue fueled by two decades worth of injustice and the suffering before me.
Redhead means don't ******* touch me.
Feb 27 · 101
I wonder if Death knew the last time he touched me
That I would be ripped from his hands yet again.
Too often has he held me in his arms.
The Reaper and I are old friends.
I often wonder if he's lonely.
Does he miss the gentle souls he doesn't get to take?
I sometimes miss our dances,
The Foxtrot of Farewell,
But I'd like to think he's proud of me
That I no longer need to hold his hand.
Feb 27 · 118
Dare to Love Me
I am the washed up shores
And ***** of sea shells,
Sharp "Ouch!' and cut of feet.
I am sandpaper to gentle touch
and dissonance to your symphony.
I am the chaos they claimed
Only existed in your imagination,
And yet,
You still dare to love me.
Feb 26 · 100
Bipolar Purgatory
Naked and so very cold on the floor,
Lost in the volatility of my emotions,
Consumed by the forest of my thoughts.
How I long for the solace of sleep,
If only the medicine would kick in,
Pulsing through my veins for the last
Weary bit of my mania,
Attempting to reduce the heat under my overflowing ***.
Dying feels like a release from this hell,
An in between of too much and not enough.
With a coin in bipolar coffer,
My soul springs free,
But I have already given so much.
I do not travel there,
Near the edge,
For I am so excited by possibilities,
But my chest aches with the sadness of this cycle.
I miss me.
If only I could find her.
Feb 26 · 170
New Opportunities
It is only right
That you should venture out
To pursue the higher mountain,
But how I will miss you
In climbing my own.
Feb 24 · 97
It’s a light touch
Because I didn’t sleep.
I’m like a fairy on my feet,
Buzzing as I run these halls.
Try and keep up as I speak.
And they always told me
What goes up, it must come down,
But I just note the world
Endlessly goes round and round,
And please don’t call me
Back from this ledge, from the edge, this epiphany.
Mania is like all the world shone a light inside of me.
It’s too bright.
I try to close my eyes but it’s too bright.
Someone say the party’s over.
Send the voices home.
I don’t like the way they sound.
I’ll be better
6 to 21 days from now.
Feb 13 · 278
The Anniversary
365 days since I thought
The afterlife might be a more welcome stage
For the stale antics of my bipolar fairytales,
How Brother's Grimm only seemed to fall grimmer,
And I was oh so tired
But too wired to sleep.
365 days since the end neared
As I recklessly abandoned hope that suffering might fluctuate
And stole the heartbeat from my own chest with bottles of pills,
Leaving only a trail of words amidst chemistry and calculus to
Explain what could never be explained.
It's been 365 days since and I died
And 365 days since they breathed life back into my body.
It's been 365 days since I forgot why I had ever intended to live in the first place,
And I have spent all 365 days picking up the pieces.
Those first weeks were brutal.
10 days in a coma so deep they suspected I might never awaken,
And the first hours without the tube,
Struggling for air in a world full of oxygen,
Whole body exhausted from fighting so hard for what should come so naturally,
Until they put the tube back in,
And I wished feverishly they had let me slip away under my haze
Into the blackness I had planned for myself.
No better metaphor had ever existed for the mental state I had occupied,
Surrounded by people and resources who could not or would not help me,
An outside world that demanded I apply more willpower or skill to beat an illness I did not know I was suffering,
Sick mind and tortured soul unable to see in a deeply fogged mirror.
I can honestly say 365 days later I am grateful they didn't let me die,
But that gratitude is bitter and sharp to the tongue.
It aches with deep shame and regret,
Of never being able to undo that night but being unwilling
To part with the lessons I've learned.
I am glad I did not die.
I hurt, though, because they could not let me go.
And even now, with wonderful girlfriend and newfound explanations,
With EMT class and badass haircut,
Solid housemates and a clearer mind,
Even with so much good in my life,
When I find myself thinking of the pain of teaching myself to merely stand on my own two feet
Or the loss of my voice and change in my body,
I sometimes wish that the coma tunnel had not opened up.
When I find myself thinking of my roommate and the paramedics
Scooping me off the floor or mother's anguished face,
I wish at times that I had not been around to see it.
It is with a heavy heart and guilt in my bones that I say this,
And YET!
There is more new joy to be had.
There is some peace to be found.
There are thoughts to pursue and ideas to be contemplated,
The gentle and loving embrace of my partner.
There is music and rhythm to run to.
There are people to help and cupcakes to be baked.
I must not forget that being saved does not happen all at once.
365 days later, I am still being saved, everyday.
Yes, by medication and therapy,
Yes by the people that bring me joy,
But most importantly by myself.
I worked hard to celebrate 365 days,
Even if it is painful,
Especially because it's been difficult.
I've spent 365 days finding a new me
And learning to accept her.
She is new, a young and sometimes delicate version.
It is hard when her foundation is built on ashes and blood.
I am not pleased with why I ended up here,
But I am proud to have survived the journey.
After all,
A lot can be accomplished in 365 days.  
I wish I had known then how much can change.
I am glad I know now.
Jan 27 · 150
I long for the day when
I will be able to sleep
Without the memories silhouetted
Like silken slinking specters  
Across my barren walls.
Jan 24 · 428
I am but ashes
In your fire,
Until I stopped providing you oxygen
And fizzled you out.
Jan 23 · 220
If I stitch my heart on top of yours,
The tattered pieces
Will cover the other's holes.
I promise to keep you warm.
I promise you are safe here.
Jan 23 · 388
Trauma Work
It is impossible to measure the depths of my scabs,
And I wonder if they are truly healing over
Or if I have simply picked at them anew.
I tel myself,
"You cannot see the new tissue underneath as it grows."
Jan 19 · 70
Easy/ Hard
Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done.
It's simple, like breathing,
Deeply ingrained and automatic,
Necessary and fresh like the air.  
Remembering that you will love me too,
Even if I am unconventional at times,
Even if my brain is more difficult some days,
Is harder.
Jan 15 · 248
Audacity is when your ****** texts you
To wish you a Happy New Year
Because his therapist advised him to make amends.
The price of breaking my soul
Is more than a ******* text.
I am queen of internet research,
Of "questions to ask on the first date"
And "when is it appropriate to 'make it official?'"
"How long should I wait to say 'I love you?'"  
I am queen of second guessing what my heart is telling me
Because I never learned the rules everyone else seems to know.
I never learned that there was a time frame
For missing the way you smell as if I am missing a star of the universe
Or the way your eyes are alight with excitement
At the mere mention of our winged and feathery brethren.
I never learned that there was a 'too soon'
To losing the mask I have reserved for so many
Or how it would feel like breathing not to wear it around you.
You asked me what I thought love meant.
I told you,
"Love is when you care about someone so much
You want them to be happy and healthy and full
Even if it doesn't serve you.
Even if it doesn't include you."
There is no beginning or expiration date
On wanting you to be happy and healthy and full.
There is no appropriate time to say
"Fasten your seatbelt!"
"Please drive safe!"
"Make sure you eat!"
"I hope you get some rest."
"Please be careful!"
"I really like you in one piece!"
"You are a good human with nothing to be ashamed of!"
To me, there is no appropriate time to say "I love you."
I've been saying it in more words,
In the way we talk about 'attack chickens' at 2am
Or bringing you a stuffed moose to prevent you petting a live one.
It is playing in snow in pajamas because I love how you glow
With childlike wonder.
It is dancing in the aisles of Target
And how much I enjoy simply buying laundry detergent with you.
My "I love you" is three words
And a million tiny ways I've been saying it otherwise
Because I had always been told that now was 'too soon.'
It isn't.
I am just in time to love you!
Dec 2019 · 349
Mood Swings
I am so tired
Of swinging from the vines
Of mismatched emotions
Until I,
Not unlike Tarzan,
Collide with the tree trunk
And remember why
I was not given wings in the first place.
Dec 2019 · 428
Dichotomy of Sex
I wish *** was as simple as your mouth on my skin,
As the mountains of knees and valleys of hips,
The friction of your body against mine.
I wish *** was as free as the movement of your hands
Strumming my body to this new and unalienable tune.
I wish that *** had only ever been how it was in that moment,
Raw and sweet,
Approaching the crescendo with the safety of your trust,
Teetering on the edge of the precipice,
****** feeling not like the destination but part of the journey.
I wish *** was not my haunted house,
That I did not have to work so hard to stay on the front lawn,
Leave the demons inside to be exorcised.
I wish my memories were all lamplit and rain on the windowpanes
Of the backseat of your car,
Huddled in the blanket fort you made,
I wish I could say my previous partners all cared whether their beds felt like
Silk to my emotions,
Not sandpaper to my fight or flight,
Grating on the nerves as I tried desperately to lay still.
Shhh, little girl, anything that happens in your silence does not exist in the morning.
You will not exist in the morning.
That version of you, so young and naïve at 19, will no longer have a name when the sun rises,
Washed like the blood and sweat and his calling card from your skin,
Washed from your mouth like the taste of the alcohol from his breath
As it hangs above you with the realization he has driven with you drunk,
Lost like the innocence as his mouth woke you before he entered unwelcomed,
And you cannot say “no,”
The scream frozen to your lips like the snow on the ground that December,
Your psyche the balloon floating on the horizon,
Pain the only anchor to this moment,
Gone like the idea that you could ever be clean,
The bite marks faded but his hand prints still linger on my nightmares,
The way he used *** the same as the sword wedged between the box spring and mattress,
*** should be beautiful,
The symphony of your skin taste of you on my lips,
The sounds of your climbing ever higher.
I want *** to be the Garden of Eden,
So comfortable we have forgotten we are not clothed,
Lost in the pleasure of our existence,
But even the Garden of Eden has a snake.
I wish that *** was not my haunted house,
Not a list of landmines longer than my forearm,
And though I have spent a year now opening the curtains, clearing the dust, and airing out the closets,
Sometimes I still ask you to please, leave the light on when we sleep.
Sometimes I can still hear the door closing with no hand behind it and acidic “You’re one hot *****.”
But you have reminded me why I fell in love with *** in the first place,
As a thread sewn between two people,
A connection of beings,
A safe place of exploration and expression.
I don’t always have the words to tell you what it means to me
That you honor both my love of *** and the haunted parts of it,
Create safety for me in the sheets,
But as we lay in the darkness,
Skin to skin,
“Thank you” will have to be enough.
This is written to be a spoken word poem. I don't usually post them on here because I think the shorter format works better, but this one is important to me, so I am posting it.
Dec 2019 · 283
On the Hard Days
On the hard days,
The sad days,
The I miss you days,
Please come snuggle days,
On the days when emotions are more mountain and less mole hill,
More swing and less steady,
On the days when you gave your best and still felt short,
I am here,
Rooting for you!
You are always enough
Exactly as you are!
Dec 2019 · 363
Sometimes dreaming is my escape,
But others
There is no escape from dreaming.
Dec 2019 · 144
Word Thief
Emotions soak up my vocabulary
With their spongy fibers,
Porous and clinging to my syllables
As if they were not mine to possess in the first place.
Feelings are like dragons,
Hoarding my words like gold.
I am hyper-verbal and hyper-lexic,
So many sentiments and letters to call upon,
But they are always out of order when
I want to tell you "I Love You!"
I say, "Please let me know you got home safe,"
Dec 2019 · 205
Lemons and Orgasms
Sometimes life gives you lemons.
Sometimes life gives you your one and only
Partnered ****** with your
And sometimes,
I don't know what to do with that,
Especially when I want so badly
To show my new lover
What she does to me.
Dec 2019 · 295
Deadly Memory
I have a memory that kills me
Like shards of glass sliding through my atrium,
Undetectable until it has ripped an
Irreparable hole in my heart.
His arm is tightened around my neck,
Pulling me to him,
My fear thicker than the air I could not breathe.
And then it was over,
Over like the red and sweat of my face
As the oxygen rushed back in.
Therapist says it was not an accident.
In 30 seconds he had tested me.
I was controllable.
Pass or fail
Depends on who you ask.
Dec 2019 · 402
Could mean brushing my hair
Or you combing my emotions for entry points.
Either way,
Untangling the knots
Dec 2019 · 118
My biggest hope
Is that one day,
I won't jump every time the door opens,
Hoping it's not you walking in.
Nov 2019 · 51
You are a symphony of skin,
Perfect harmony of two souls.
You are the quarter rest of skipped heartbeats,
Electric run of mind,
Thoughts cascading
Like 16th notes descending the treble clef.
You are the forbidden crescendo,
Pulse rising to the tune of lips melded together.
You are my favorite melody,
Wild, unique, so familiar and yet new,
Playing in my mind on repeat.
Nov 2019 · 57
He is twin boy,
The essence of mother's desired perfection.
He possesses seasonal allergies and sensitive skin.
I am twin girl,
Mother's best kept secret, preferred to be forgotten.
I possess Autism,
Bipolar Disorder,
Non-Verbal Learning disorder,
Restless leg and Essential Tremors.
He is twin boy,
Consistent, dependable, Type A.
I am twin girl,
Quirky, chaotic brilliance, Type Unknown.
He is twin boy,
Well loved.
I am twin girl,
Locked in hot car and forgotten as if they only had one child.
Did Mother do ******* while pregnant,
And why did it only go to one side?
Nov 2019 · 54
Loss and Holidays
I don't think I'll ever have words
For how much I miss you this time of year,
For how painful it is to have lost you,
Or how grateful I am to have known you.
I am always searching in the darkness
For a sentiment that carries enough weight
To say how sorry I am you did not think your absence would be missed.
If anything, I miss you a little more every day.
Nov 2019 · 82
The Crux
I knew it was coming.
I wasn't ready.
Nov 2019 · 466
For the Love of Books
Dear friends,
Now I must ask a favor.
A poetry contest is under way,
$100 dollars worth of books at stake,
The entry?
A poem about that for which I am grateful.
This means a lot,
Oh, Nerd I am!
Please follow this link and vote:
My deepest gratitude you would have!
My poem is short. It will take 30 seconds. If you have a moment, I would really appreciate it! If not, no worries! Thank you!
Nov 2019 · 58
It seemed like the world would go on forever,
Stretching past the horizon
As his mouth formed the words
"You have Bipolar disorder."
In that moment,
The air froze,
And time stopped.
Suddenly the atoms were abuzz again.
I knew
He was right.
Nov 2019 · 202
Brain Chemist
And then the brain chemist spilled
An entire bottle of hypomania
Into the *** of depression.
Hell has many names.
Oct 2019 · 292
Greatest Wish
My greatest wish
Is that one day someone will love me,
Not for what I can give them,
But because I have intrinsic value myself.
My greatest wish is that one day
My story will not be too much
But just the right amount
Of ME.
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