Trigger warning: violent content
If you looked down to assess your new patient and locked eyes with someone who had brutally attacked you just months prior, what would you do?
I’ve been wondering about that, day dreaming really, and I keep coming back to — save them, and with a smile.
Honestly, what could be more empowering than saving a life that once threatened yours? Perhaps you’re just affording the universe more time to level things out on a different day, in a different way…
I say this to clarify, for it seems you do not know who I…
This heat is a weird heat
Much like your eyes are a special kind of valuable to you
Neither make sense until you think how wasteful it all is
Your eyes, lies
Their heat, pretend
Tulips gifted in distraction’s name — lovely bandaids I guess, nothing more I’m sure
Spare them next time so at least one of us will live
Poor, pretty tulips
Poor, pretty rose
If a flower, I’d want to be wild, crooked, but sort of dull too
so nobody plucks me for my beauty just to force me into a role of their choosing in the “love…
I was not where I claimed to be?
Did you really just say that to me?
Am I where?
I am indeed wherever I am, so yes, I guess?
I’m not sure what you are asking me.
Please be more specific.
I’m all ears.
But you didn’t mean for a long response.
Most people can’t handle it anyway.
And “it” is me —You may freely walk away,
or at least that’s how you behave.
But if I’m so disposable,
why must that leash be kept so tight?
Is it that an unrestrained target would be too hard to tame?
I remember it so vividly, which is odd considering how little color I saw that day. It was a cumulative event, which is strange because it was unveiled so suddenly to me.
This day was like the trip you spent years dreaming, months planning, and weeks packing for. This day was like the clay you carefully kneaded, molded, and crafted into the perfect mirror image of your perfect, made-up life. But on this day you flung all of those suitcases open. And on this day, you shattered your clay as it came from the oven.
Though things had been going…
My tattoos don’t have ink, but they aid me more than you may think because I look at them and I remember that days may get dark, but we’ll never part, please forgive my doubt, my dear depression
Please tell me you’ll let us take walks down the block and do more than just talk to each other because sometimes I tire of what tends to transpire from our conversations
Your words touch my tongue, travel down, fill my lungs, convince me I’ll never get better, and you remind me I’m through if I try to survive without you but…
I’ve heard the argument that writing under a pseudonym makes an author’s work less valuable, less authentic, less vulnerable. While I personally have a differing opinion, I can understand the sentiment if it’s coming from someone who bares their soul to the world writing revealing essays, poems, and novels for all to read.
Whenever sensitive content is shared with the intention of helping others, I commend the effort, especially when the writer uses their real name. I can’t help but to give credit where credit is due. I admit It’s a brave thing to do.
Writing under your real name…
For everyone who cares to ask
going back to him will be the last
thing I will ever allow to happen
despite the want and the temptation because
there's a comfort in the cage you're trapped in
but there’s a peace that comes when you finally leave him
So to everyone in these shoes
know that you can make it too
I pass no judgment, I understand
how you get stuck, your feet in sand
but believe in yourself and take the risk
and never again will he raise a fist to you
what a life that would be; It’s the…
It started with a slip, a simple trip, you know?
I slid down from where I had chosen to sit, there on the window sill
but I didn’t fall all the way down, my knees didn’t touch the ground — this time
You didn’t offer a reason to quit, another place to sit, you know?
So I just kept trucking along, kept singing the same love songs
out of another’s sliding square door, left my baggage on that floor — this time
It ended when my feet hit the ground, it felt so slow, you know?
I slumped down from the…