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The time I spent with you I never regret.
I learned so much about myself in your presence,
and more than I could have imagined,
I fell in love with someone I wanted to spend forever with.
Ironically though forever now seems impossible.
Every day is a waiting game,
and I do not know if this second will be the last.
So I turn away.
Leave behind what made me so happy.
And all the memories I’ll treasure
will only remain as that.
I do not want you to see me the way I will become.
Goodbyes laced with anger will hurt far less than a goodbye at the edge.
And I’m sorry it’s come to this.
I’d turn my days around if I could,
and all the lies would never have to be.
But I can’t hold onto hope when hope flickers so small.
With a fire in my heart,
I write love stories that aren't fairytales.
Though beautiful,
fairytales aren't all that magical,
and life just doesn't work that way.

No love story is a happy ever after,
and no love story can ever be real.
Life is full of heartaches, tragedies, and broken promises.
Even if love sticks around,
it never runs that smoothly.

Love is not a highway,
but a cobbled road,
sometimes lonely,
or a tidal wave during a storm,
fighting to pull you under.

Though love is ****,
it too is beautiful.
Love can endure the worst.
Illness, temptation, anger, and a sadness no one wants to bare.
It's stronger than anything,
and more solid than most.
It casts out fear,
and defeats hate.
It's what I write about.
The good and the bad.
Have you ever met someone who won gold in The Suffering Olympics?

The one-uppers.

She's the woman at work who always has it worse than everyone else, and he's the uncle with a blasé attitude, a balding head and a belly full of baby pork...or maybe they're your friend, a parent, your loving wife or hardworking husband.

Don't you feel just as bad as they do?

Are you sick...enough?

Even pain is a contest that you can't win and you're sick of that, too.

It hurts, but not that much. It could always be worse.

But worse would be death and even then, they'd say they died twice that week.

The only thing you're winning is a silver medal in the race, and now you understand that one second is the difference between winning and losing.

Why are you happy? There will always be someone happier.

Stronger, prettier, wealthier.

How can you enjoy existence when comparisons are the only way to add contrast to your world, that make you feel like you're actually achieving something?

This isn't a sport.

You are not a number on a screen.

You are not an athlete with a bib tattooed on their chest.

There are no awards in this game, honey, there's only you.

And you're enough.
(Written from my best friend's viewpoint. I hope she gets better soon.)

In search of release,
Autumnal gusts escape me.
A sorrow shower.
Misha Kroon Oct 10
Body, forgive my anger.
I know this illness is woven in your foundations.
I know you know no different.
This useless shell I have been gifted is only genetics.
You try your best,
I understand.
I try to.
You do only as you know how,
This pain is the only tool you have to break.
I know this.
Forgive my frustration.
My existence has been wrought with this suffering.
I cope the only way I know how.
I am not angry at you,
How could I be,
You have carried me like a mother.
Understand this loose host of elastic joints is just temporary,
This unholy soul is just unsettled.
Body, forgive my anger,
I know you don't know what else to do.
I suffer with a connective tissue disorder called Hypermobility Syndrome. The chronic pain it has caused me over the years has often times been horrendous, and this time of year as the seasons change rapidly, it's frustrating to live in my own skin sometimes.
K Oct 6
Breathe a breathy, "How have you been doing," in your white coat, Dr.
And cast blank but not wholly unconcerned glances my way.
Press cold against my chest, ask me to breathe.
Coax my blood forth-
I can't watch it fill,
Physically being alone is just a toothache
A dull reminder that something is missing, or that something is lost
Realizing that you have no one to share your day with
No one to tell your hopes and dreams
Even on our greatest days where we have found within ourselves the kerosene to brighten our flame and chase away the dark
Our toothache flares and finally we feel the buckshot that is mentally, spiritually and totally alone
It invades like an infection creeping through our muscles until bed becomes a form of open casket
Rotting away our heart and soul until finally our optic nerve gets reached
This cancerous emotion erodes our sight and stops us from seeing the light outside ourselves
We stumble in our new found dark
As our brain is corrupted we reach these dark hallucinations that if there is no one to share our good day with then what is the point of having good days at all
Before we know it our bodies are no longer our own, we feel unsettled in our own skin.
Not even our own company is enough
I awoke
and I was there someplace
in some bed
being attended to
by some male nurse
who had brought breakfast
on a tray

it had been a drugged sleep
and I recalled vague images
of the night before
some sort of descent
to a darker hell
and police officers came
and a struggle
and an ambulance
and medication
and off to some hospital
to be soothed
to a deep sleep

Where am I?
I asked the nurse

he said the name
of the place
some psychiatric hospital
and left the room

later I wandered the ward
and adjoining corridor
and spoke to none
and none spoke to me
except some quack
with letters after his name

later I tried to top myself
not wanting to play the game
but others came
and cut me down
and transferred me
to the locked ward
behind double doors
with other broken minds
and green linoleum
on cold floors.
Nicole Oct 4
It was a mirage
Translucent and flimsy.
A daydream tucked
Gently in between the folds
Of reality
And it was an
Effervescent and scary
Now after an
astronaut is tethered
To an earthly landing
Do the spectators see
Not a utopia or a dystopia
But a heaven created
On solid ground
That once had been crumbling.
And the artist
Who had designed
Such important drawings
Now saw the importance
Of experiencing
Other worlds
And also the creativity
Of sculpting her own
Beth Bayliss Oct 3
don't look at me like that
as I rise on shaking legs
and begin to push my chair up a steep hill.

I am far too tired to put my body through the hell
that self-propulsion would inflict upon me here,
and far too tired to tell you anything more than to
b a c k   o f f
as you raise a judgemental eyebrow,
or make a pointed remark to your friend
about how lazy the youth these days are.

if I could summon the energy, I would say
'forgive me; every cell in my body is giving up on me
and it is almost more than I can bear to be awake right now.'

if I could summon the energy, I might even give
a brief overview of chronic illness, before realizing
that I owe the details of my medical history to nobody.

if I could summon the energy,
I wouldn't be in this ****** chair in the first place
ducking your glares and stares and *******.

so don't you dare look at me like that,
or I'll run my wheels over your foot.
would like to clarify that I have yet to attack anyone with my wheelchair. no matter how tempting it may be.
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