Dear tea mug,
Dear, dear tea mug.
I have finished what must be
My seven hundred and fifteenth cup
Of tea.
I see a faint discolored ring inside you
You're getting old, my friend
I see scratches at your bottom
And a bit of sediment
But no matter what, you're my favorite
And no matter how old
Or discolored
Or scratched you become
I will depend on you to carry the great burden
Of
Mint
Chamomile
Or orange spice tea
For years and years to come.
I raise you to my lips
My sweet carrier of warm drink
And set you back on my windowsill
As I read on my wooden bench
Cushions pressing against my back,
Blanket embracing my cold legs.
But no matter how drafty it gets, kind friend,
I will always depend
On you to carry that great burden
Of tea
To warm me.
I appreciate how hard you work
I'm writing a poem about you, see
And I just want to let you know that
I love you and your burden of tea.

You have to be careful of what you touch
Everything you ever lay your hands on
Will forever remember the way you held it
Until it fades away into the dust that it came from
The pen will remember how you held it between your fingers
How much pressure you put on it when you wrote her a love letter
Her doorbell will always remember the way your hand shook
The day you took her out for the first time
The passenger side door handle will remember
How your hand was slick with sweat when you tried to open it for her
The fork and knife you used to cut your steak that night
Will remember how you fumbled with them because you were so nervous
The steering wheel will remember how tightly you held it
As you drove her back to her house after dinner
They will always remember every detail of your touch
So think twice before you reach out to her and take her hand
Because when you touch her your fingerprints aren’t only left on the surface
They will sink below the surface of her skin and seep into her blood stream
They will course through her entire body
And just like the pen she will never forget the way you touched her
*~W.C.

Do you ever get stuck on someones physical appearance
To the point where you can't get past one of their features
Its just so eye catching and no matter what you can't help but focus
On this one aspect of them that shouldn't really matter so much
When you talk to them you find yourself fixated
Eyes drawn to whatever it is that calls for your attention
You see I only ask because I am having this very problem
I adore her to no end but I simply can't get past her eyes
They're just so beautiful
*~W.C.

Innocent girl,
afraid of the world.
They have no idea what goes on in your mind.

They can't see the cuts.
They can't hear your thoughts.
They can't see you're at war with yourself.

"You're too good."
"You'd never do wrong."
"You're so innocent."

They can't see you're dying.
They can't hearing your crying.
They can't hear you screaming for help.

Innocent girl,
when will you tell the world,
about the pain you feel.

They don't believe you could hurt,
They don't believe you could bleed,
They are sickened by your "perfection".

"You've never been depressed."
"You're mind is so clear."
"You've never known struggle."

Innocent girl,
when will you show the world,
the scars you have from losing your mind.

Everyone I've only been home for about 4 weeks and already I feel myself failing.
I am trying everyday, I try and I try. But I feel my will slowly fading
It's different  being back here where I have no support meetings and daily check ups
It's different, and I ******* hate this all of it
I want to give up but I know, I know I just can't
Not for anyone else, but for myself.

I miss me.
I miss Emma, and I'm scared that she'll never come back. That she'll never be the same

Today I ate a slice of pizza, some granola, and filled up on water. Even then I wanted to *****. I wanted to let it all go, the pain, the suffering, the fear.
I don't want to be so negative but it's a ******* disease, bulimia is one hell of a sickness. One that I might just rot away in

*I want to be held and loved. I want to be happy and free. I want my life back everyone

holed up in a little cottage

she questions her existence

and watched as the wind blew her life away

and took it to the lands beyond far-seeing eyes

deep inside the dark devil’s home where it resided in a glass jar.

her limp body cringed as it writhed in pain from sinew to sinew; crevasse to crevasse and nerve to nerve

she asked, “why?” again as she felt sensations of an unfamiliar sort before falling slumber to the subtle tricks of her mind

and awoke to the screams of her soul as it was ripped from her bodice in strange, unnatural ways

she could only look on as the devil stole it for his own cruel pleasure

and as her body faded into the colors of hell

and burned with the fires that never die.

(lunarlullubies)