The fly,
drawn by its addiction
to sweetness,
enters the pitcher plant.
Tired and drugged,
slipping on downward
pointing hairs
it falls into
the digestive juices
that dissolve its goodness
leaving only
its hard
chitin
skeleton.

I came across a site called "Hello Poetry."
It made promises of sweet words — heavenly.

I tiptoed my way inside,
tired of the world,
with a heavy heart and a heavy mind.

But then I read and read and read;
I read about love, about ruin, about dread.

I read of the pain, I read of the thoughts
of different bodies, of different minds, of different souls.

I came in with my hands empty;
I leave with passion — plenty.
I found it at the right time,
with my heart hollow,
when even love felt like a tough pill to swallow.

I leave now with my own stories
about the words of others,
strangers across the world,
now my round table, my counsel,
a new life — unfurled.

(I wrote this just after I read a couple of poems that really made my perspective shift about different things that we commonly struggle with life. All of them were so beautifully written, I felt so heard and I felt like I was already a part of a community)

I earned this status in a very vulnerable and upsetting moment in my life.

Of course, it was exploited and took advantage of. Me.

I served as an inside joke, a clown for others to get a kick out of, free use and laughter for others.

All whilst patronising me! I was oblivious. This, accompanied by other hardships, continued for a ruthless and renting four years, until it ceased.

The joke had gotten old, and they let me be.

More or less, this goes to show what true reality is like. Vulnerability is what monsters prey after! Like a shark huffing the scent of blood underwater, they prowl.

Am I the way I think, the way I dress,
Or the way I speak?
Or am I defined by the way
I broke my own heart through rotten adversities?

Am I kind, am I bitter, or am I stuck in between?
Does everyone remember the ways I hurt them
Or the ways I healed?
Am I shaped by my destiny
Or by the paths I carve myself?
Will I make a difference,
Or will my life just quietly pass?

Am I the things I hate, am I the things I love?
Am I the things I do, or the things I think of?
Am I the words I write or the scenes I paint?
What happens if I stay? What happens if I go?

When they look at me, do they see a face or a heart?
Am I the way I spurn or the way I laugh?

Am I this? Am I that?
I am a thousand things,
everything plays a part.