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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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Life Is Like an Elevator, You Lose People When You Go Up
Life’s got buttons, doors, and floors,A lobby full of “let’s be friends”Until you start climbing—Then the weight limit kicks in. At ground level, it’s all laughs and cheers,Everyone piling in, no space for fears.But press that button—success, next stop—And suddenly, some folks gotta hop. Ding! First floor—here go the onesWho liked you better when you…
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