"Write," people say.
"It'll help with the pain."
But what if every time I pick up a pencil
I only go more insane?

I stay in my depression.
I can't say I'm brave.
I'm stuck on this merry-go- round
and I no longer want to play.

It doesn't make me stronger.
It only makes me sadder.
If this goes on any longer
I know I will decay.

Writing is a reminder
of where and how I went wrong.
It reminds me of the regrets,
I'm hearing the same old song.

So when people tell me to write
I want to sit and scream.
All I ever wanted was
to leave this dreadful dream.

Staring back at a skeleton,
watching the sharp, jutting
edges of my ribs ripple
like ocean waves whenever I move.
I can see the bones in my
back
chest
arms
legs
hands
And even though I'm near my death bed
all I see is a fat girl instead.

She had that
octopus smile,
always reaching for
something.
I was her small
fish; her handmaid.
I lived in her nebulous
world for far too long.
Inky confusion...

There's a reason for
your treason, said the
old man to the shark,
but Hem forgot, a beast
is a beast, they do
beastly things.
We all have to eat.

I'm done being the
meal.
It's your Ocean,
I'm just trying to
swim in it.

You're an oyster,
and I want your
pearl,
but I won't drown
for it.

In a small sailboat
I went to sea alone
and came back reborn.

How silly we are to overcomplicate love
Legal forms, caterers, and the same line spoken eagerly at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
All you have to do is ask
And just like that two silently become one
Simple solution for complex creatures