I want the world to open up and swallow me.
Intense, right? But intensity runs through my veins
the kind that bleeds passion,
the kind that demands expression, not just words, but poetry,
the kind of deep that sinks to the bottom of the ocean,
where it’s dark and raw, where I belong.
I know, not everyone is ready for waters like these,

but I thrive in the depths.
It scares people off, sometimes.

****. ****.
Okay, here I am again, not holding back.
I wonder—should I shrink, soften the edges?
Should I cut the fire down?
How do I even begin to stop feeling so much?
What does it mean to feel less, to express less?
If I feel less, I say less, and if I say less, I lose pieces of myself.
I’m not willing to lose her.

So, I let myself feel.
I cry, I rage, I break,
but in those moments, I’m alive.
I stomp, I speak, I let it all out, because if I don’t,
I dishonor who I am and the very essence of this human experience.
I would rather break a thousand times,
hurt again and again,
than let this world turn me bitter