December 2016


It’s whirling, you know. You feed me like a spoon-fed child; I am unaware of what I’m consuming–or what is consuming me.

You are the very touch that burns on contact. My instinct is to withdraw, but here I am, scorching repeatedly.

It’s repetitive, you know. I have become everything I’ve ever stood frozen in front of.





You were supposed to be an escape. Everything that I was running from just showed up right on my doorstep. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, or what I wanted to become of this.

I trusted you. I let you in when all else failed. I came to you to take the pain away. But how can I expect to be granted a release from the altercations within me when there is nothing in you but a wicked reflection of my very tragedies?

You can’t cure misery by swimming with misery’s finest companion.

When you expect the ocean to wash away your pain, the salt in the water will just burn your wounds.

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