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This is a story of a young women
A hand crawled down her throat
Inching its way further and further
Choking, she was grasping for air
The hand made it down to the most vital *****
It grabbed a hold with all its might
Squeezed the very essence of it
It took procession of this vital *****
Took out her whole being
Everything that made her, her
She couldn't breath, could not speak
The hand took complete procession over her entity
Changed her into a sickly, frightened, scared, women
Until all that she was ceased to exist
And she was no more
There are days where I get so frustrated and angry, over such small things, and I feel like I lose complete control. I yell, throw things around, cry. It scares me because I've never felt this way before. Growing up I've had some issues, mostly anxiety issues, but this is a whole new ball game. I feel like I completely lose control over my emotions. I'm scared to tell anyone because I'm afraid they will think I'm crazy or something.
a secret is a wild
   climbing vine,
      which consumes
         slender cracks
      and early mornings
   with scandent possibilities:
      first of familiarity,
   then affection,
then intimacy.

a secret needs
   very little
      to support it
   neither water
      nor food
and only
   a modicum of  truth.

i want to be the one
in whom you confide.

have another glass of wine
and spill your secrets.
Don't worry, I have nothing to say.
I'm throwing up blood anyway.

I'm hungry, lost, broke.  Whatever, happy.

I don't have time to care that you look down.
I don't have time for my excuses.
It's okay that neither of us understands.

I am so loved and so lonely,
so lonely and so loved. Both.

I'm not running anymore.  Not dying of thirst anymore.

I write to be known. I am known: me, by Jesus, we've been traveling.
Call me crazy,
okay.

Don't worry, I have nothing to say. I'm listening.

Do you miss me like I miss you?  
Do I miss you like you miss me?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NFmNIb9NSII
Searched for my virtue.
Wandered, found my vice instead.
Been there ever since.
There is nothing
Like the wind
When it sweeps
You
Off your feet
The way
The walls
Stand purple
Filled
With dancing
Indians
The prickles
Of the pines
That walk
Across
Your back
Then
They tell
You
To go
Back
And start
Over
Went digging, and found an old scrap poem.
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