There is no control. Illusions once shattered will always remain in shambles. Cut your hands gripping the loss if the pain will bring comfort.
One foot watching the doorway, the other counting the exits.
Imagine how we’d live to see the day if the different colors in our skin didn’t require products to make it more uniform.
The change I crave is uncomfortable.
It is an unruly child screaming at a pitch fit to pierce attention.
I stick my neck out. Because I will break before I see a system make another bend too far.
How silly it is to be confident in the structure of a minute.
I stopped taking pictures of myself as our conversations tapered off.
There is something lovely about an overwhelming happiness
demanding to be felt and experienced.
Often, we pretend to be present as our feet stretch with anticipation to reach the future.
Where is the magic of an inner child who trudges through emotional warfare?