She liked sweatpants, just like her mother did
She wore them her whole life
She told him how much she hated when people tried taking them
They always tried stealing them

He stained the sweatpants though
Her favorite sweatpants
The one she waited months for to get
She tried not to think much of it

Then he stole her sweatpants
She didn't get why
She made it so clear of how much she disliked when people did that
But he did it anyways

Why couldn't he ask?
It was just a simple question
It was what she held on to the most
He took it away

She misses those sweatpants
She misses how it felt when she did have them
Her favorite sweatpants she wore her whole life was gone forever
And there was nothing she could do to get it back

After returning home from a jubilant, exciting day
I often feel a gaping hole in me, stretching to become broader and broader
It’s a hole I often put a paste on
A paste to keep it temporarily closed, as I am fearful to venture into this gorge
“What is this intense emotion inside me?” I often ask myself
However, I’m afraid to fully step into my darkness
I’m afraid that if I were to fully explore this gorge, I’d never come out
Is it filled with black tar? Or is there some white pigment scattered around?
Is it like quicksand? Is it inescapable?
So many questions fill my mind as the days go by