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My Therapist
My therapist asked me to describe pain. “It tastes like metal,” I said—like the tang of blood you can’t spit out,the kind that lingers at the back of your throatlong after the wound is made. It smells like raintrapped in a room with no windows—damp, heavy, refusing to leave. It sounds like a door closing…
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How Much More?
Hmm… tell me—how much more of myself must I spillbefore you notice the mess I’m drowning in? How many nights must I trade for morningsthat never bring your warmth?How many breaths must I hold backso you can keep breathing easy? Tell me,how much more of these tearsmust I wastefor my cries to finallyreach your ears?…
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I’M SO TERRIFIED
Does my love matter?So long whats the matter?For deep within i can feel my soul battling with my fleshLoosening all tight knotsLove and feelings all pulling in different directionsInside my mind and heart is pain and peace in diversion I’m so terrifiedMy feelings are slowly fading and I can’t help it Icondo yami ithi mina…
