Trichotillomania.

They call me crazy Not out loud Not even in hushed voices They’re afraid I’d hear their every sound Afraid I would know... They call me crazy In their heads, On the internet I know these things I know everything I feel like I know... They call me crazy Because my eyes dart around And …

Misconstrued.

They speak of love like a force, An entity of its own, Enveloping mere mortals. Possessing them, Taking over in ways that failed to appeal to me, And I believed. But this, This is nothing like I envisioned. This is soothing, Like cool breeze on a warm summer’s night. Calming, Like a drag of Mary …

Living With An Emotional Deficiency – IV.

IV. I guess if I wasn’t so broken, I would enjoy hugs. They’re sickeningly invasive, uncomfortably restrictive. A gesture which intellectuals should have eradicated years ago. Yet, it’s oddly satisfying...for half a second. But for you, I endure. A.

Talentless.

I once created literary art, With blood drawn from my broken heart. The words flowed endlessly, How could it not? With an abundance crimson fluid gushing out uncontrollably, As the cracks in my poor love centre elongated. Because of this, I was declared a lyricist in her prime. But I have watched my creativity sublime, …

Just Afraid.

You try to be the best I’ve ever had, But that doesn’t take much effort. You don’t know that, And I’ll never mention it. Not my experience with abuse, Not the insecurities bound to oxygen, flowing through my veins. I’m afraid you’ll be inspired, Afraid you’d come up with new methods of breaking my heart, …

Make It Make Sense.

According to physics, roses are red, Just like the skies are blue. But blue isn’t just the warmest colour, It’s your favourite colour. And oud amber isn’t just the sultriest smell, It’s your signature scent. Your aura, your being, My memories still alive and breathing. How can I lay in bed without thinking? With stars …