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  • Writer's pictureBitsandpieces

Eureka, light! Bulb strikes and a Polaroid picture paints the picture I have failed to see, but painted, over and over, and over again…

Self loathsome soul speaks ill of the one that lives closest to the surface. Causing waves and having her forget “her” as a whole. Falling yesterday bound, and freshly branded…

She has failed to feed the fish beneath the skin, the piranha that devour temperament should they be starving for the dark, for peace, for a space without others, and for rest.

Let the games begin should you deny the dark to the parts tiny and needing sleep.

Seeping, into my skin, they come, and they come, with a vengeance.

Self loathing prevents me from knowing I am the conductor of all should we be engaged.

I cannot feel my own feelings without directing those to feel the same.

When I am joyful, all are joyful. When I am filled with rage and quiet, and I am in the room, “they" are in fear. Removing my energy causes damage, irreparable damage. My everything causes irreversible and irreparable damage.

My want to beat what’s impossible, to prove it could be done, all the while knowing, the math was against me.

  • Writer's pictureBitsandpieces


Sometimes I think about dying, well, I think about it a lot more than perhaps most. If I’m outside, I think about it at least once. But I think about it in passing, like a stop sign or a broken fence post. It’s fleeting and like a whisper, almost kind.

It’s also usually in a violent way. Like being hit by a car, or a train, or someone shooting me on the face while I’m in the back of a cab.

One of me is always in a spy movie. Being chased, watched, and hunted. My walls tapped with cameras and microphones and me “performing” it’s not a real world place but a real world place. My body can believe it if I done keep my imagination in check.

I wonder how many other people think about their death, in passing.

  • HER

Time is a currency without mercy, and my pockets are empty. I am overdrawn. I ache for touch, taste, and the indulgence of flesh. I ache for human interaction, my muscles, pleading to be inspired.

I want to laugh, from my belly. I want to have my lips delighted and shy, all at the same time. I ache to be shy, and feel small, instead of sounding loud, and taking up space. I ache to be intrigued.

Cold, wet, felt, brushes against my lips, and it disgusts me. It reminds me of a wet shower curtain attaching to my legs, and I can taste nausea, I can taste metal. It’s the condensation on the inside of my mask, condensation from my breath sweating against the felt. A water barrier, between my breathing, and air.

I want to hang my head out of a car window, like a dog, and feel the wind against my lips. I ache for the kiss of the wind.

I want to taste the breath of a man, I want to feel the heat in his face, in his cheek. I want a chrysalis. I want…

Touch. To touch, and be touched. To see, and to be seen. To taste, and be tasted. To be drowning in someone.

I want…

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