More.
More, more, more!

Is it always wrong to long for more?

I know what I want, I know what I need,

It’s right there, within my reach,

Tugging at its sleeve,

My eyes devour it greedily,

Soaking in my desire.
Please, give it to me

I can’t bring myself to take it.

Let the bones from my back turn to dust and fertilize the soil,
Let the ichor of my husk water the moss and ferns,
Let the hair on my head be given to the birds for their nest,
Let them make a home from my hollow skull,
Let the heart, still in my chest, be nourishment for the foxes,
Let it all return, not as it was, but as it is meant to be.

Her touch was sickly sweet poison,
Formaldehyde, cold and suffocating.

Her fingers left a trail of bad decisions
 a path I still fight to undo.
Her eyes bored into me, hungry for a taste,

and I, unguarded, reluctantly let her consume me.
She lives inside me now,

in the restless need I can’t shake,

in the cravings I never asked for,

in the lust I fight to control.
She led me down this path,

through shadows of hypersexuality,

and I wonder if you feel anything now.

Do you ******* pain,

the part of me you left behind?

I hope you hate yourself,

the way I’ve learned to hate what you made me become.

I want to be nowhere special,

with no one special.

Our home, just walls and quiet rooms,

our cars, worn but dependable,

our bank accounts simple,

our clothes, nothing to boast about.

Our food, plain and comforting,

our jobs, unremarkable but steady,

our phones, just tools for connection.
But in the midst of it all,

we will be something quiet,

something real.
We will be enough,

without ever needing to be special.

Are we a novel or a short story?
Will the hero vanquish the villain, or will we spiral into a psychological thriller?
Is there magic lurking in the corners,
or mischief in every twist?
Will we find glory or guts,
or will gold be the prize we never reach?

Will there be romance that ignites,
or a slow burn that fizzles out?
Will triumph rise,
or will we drown in the weight of defeat?
Fighting, feuds, will they scar us,
or will they push us toward something greater?

What will our story look like?
Are we a best seller, cherished,
or a forgotten tome gathering dust on a shelf?
Will we inspire revolution,
shifting the course of history?
Will we echo the power of ancient, biblical texts,
words that change lives for centuries to come?

Will we inspire, educate, and challenge?
Or will we lull, a quiet companion to sleep?
Do we linger in quiet moments,
read in bathrooms, in bedrooms,
or do we make our mark in the world outside?
Are we a tale as old as time,
or a new chapter waiting to unfold?

Time will only tell,
but I wish I could read between the lines
turn the page
before the story’s over.

The scars upon my flesh grow dull and pale,

A reminder, though faded, of a lesson learned or a fight endured.

The wounds within my soul remain raw, vivid, and tender.

If they could be seen, they would weep and bleed,

A stark contrast to the markings that decorate my skin.

A lover, a friend, a stranger, a shrink,
No matter their attempts to heal, I react

Like a cornered animal, resisting any aid.

Can I, like a wolf trapped by a bear trap,

Chew through my own memories to escape the pain,

Or will they remain, festering and new,

A constant reminder of the wounds that still bind me?

When will enough be enough?
When the seed of doubt has fully bloomed?
When the clock on the wall has struck its last note?
When the thumping of the rain falls silent?
When the light of dawn breaks through the dark?
When the winds of change blow their final breath?
When the weight of silence is lifted from the room?
When the shadows fade and reveal the truth?
When the last step is taken, and the path is known?
When will the end finally meet the beginning?