I feel the need to crack open,
and allow the cacophony of
bullshit emotions inside of me to leak like oil onto the sidewalk.
It’s hard to keep them stuffed in there,
each in a separate compartment, you know?
How do you tuck away the liquid malleability of anger, joy, shame, despair…?
Each sentiment oozing into the other.
Never quite respecting each’s own iridescence, and
none of them ever really acquiescing.
Every one of them pressing to the front, flooding into each other as if
one were more important to acknowledge instead of the others.
Do you have…
My heart hurts.
It aches and bleeds the pain of our society that each of us has shoved
down into the deepest corners of ourselves.
I withdraw into myself, place armored walls around myself because I take on the pain of you, of him, of her, of they,
We are a nation divided, grieving the
loss of human lives,
grieving common sense and sanity, grieving
the loss of genuine, honest, emotional connection
between each other.
Do you remember what a hug feels like?
Instead of respectful discourse we doom scroll, picking fights within the comments of posts meant…
I’ve been trying to come home,
to live inside of myself, my body, but
every time I wipe my feet off on the welcoming mat,
I’m thrown from the doorstoop as if I were propelled by
an unseen wind.
I wonder if I’m not supposed to come “home”, forever meant
to wander just outside the barricade of my four-walls?
I don’t want to peep inside, that seems rude, but I can’t help
but be drawn towards the light that manifests itself just inside
of the curtains.
Someone is home, I see, but for some reason, they can’t hear my screams…
I don’t like thinking about it for what it was. I don’t care for the word to roll around on my tongue as if it were welcomed with open arms.
It’s a word I’ve saved for only the most egregiously violent of acts so it has been in my own self-preservation to ignore it; push it down, bury it underneath the mountain of trauma I sit upon as a thrown of barbed wired shame. …
Bones dense with fear
they cracked and crumbled under pressure.
Panic streaked her face
in shades of shadows only known to those she shared her terror to.
Her skin prickled at the pore
every time that she wore
the suit of “pretend”.
Walking down halls
with key card entries
she should feel safe,
but instead, she peered out from underneath
her head which fell heavy like a brick to the floor;
eyes gazed down but always on watch.
Where is he?
Breath caught, captured tightly in her chest haphazardly thrown into a cage under lock and key, it pressed up…
Show me a person who doesn’t have some semblance of body dysmorphia and I’ll show you a liar. The way we view ourselves is through the weirdest, sometimes most jaded, oftentimes hyper-critical lens that rarely skews towards the positive. I’m not here to talk about body positivity (though, I’m in full support) but rather body dysmorphia.
In terms of a mental health disorder, body dysmorphia is where you can’t stop thinking about one or more perceived defects or flaws in your appearance which are often times incredibly minor and not even noticed by anyone else. Maybe you think you’re nose…
Sometimes, my whole body feels… off. As if a slight degree of change from the projected timeline has happened and my internal clock is now attempting to catch up and catch up quickly.
The Biden presidential win was one of those times. It was a joyous day, but I’m not sure it was the day the timeline predicted would happen, or thought would happen. Was the timeline geared towards Trump winning a second term? I truly hope not, but on that glorious day when Biden became the projected president-elect, my entire body was… off. …
It’s not a title I enjoy using — “best friends”. It denotes that one or two of my friends is the be all end all, cut above the rest of the other beautiful people I have in my life. Friendships are a fluid beast — sometimes people are closer and sometimes they orbit farther away. Life and circumstances will often dictate both.
This is something I wish we were taught as children, or maybe as teenagers. People will come and go and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean someone necessarily did anything wrong, but we go about it as if we…