• Depression and anxiety,  Prose and poetry,  Ruminations,  Sadness

    I can’t trust my senses

    You’re worthless. You don’t matter. Your existence means nothing: you may have been something special before, but not now, and never again.

    This isn’t me talking.

    That’s Depression, talking in His sweetly sinister voice.

    That voice has the ability to permeate the nooks and crannies of my mind. It is a noxious gas tainting my memories, even the good ones. I’ve been living with it for so long—more often than not, in eighteen years—that it’s difficult for me to ignore it.

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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships


    It was cold, wet, windy.

    Photo by Amit Shaiwale on Unsplash

    Waves were crashing down upon my head, one after another, pummeling me into submission. Saltwater-soaked clothes like weights, dragging me down deeper into the churning frothing freezing liquid hell, anchoring me to the sea floor even as I struggled to keep my head above the current.

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  • Personal Favorites,  Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    Months ago, miles away: There are no worse bus rides than the ones that take me away from you

    For every day that you and I meet, I hold on to the bus tickets.

    At the end of the night, I pull the ticket out from my wallet and unfold it, smoothing the tattered corners, laying it flat before carefully placing it in the corner of my bookshelf, on top of a pile of other tickets. This has become a ritual of remembering: scattered in my closet like confetti, lining the bottom of an empty shoebox, slipped between the pages of a favorite book.

    I have kept every scrap of cheap newsprint that chronicles our journey from the beginning, from our first bus ride.

    Photo by Bash Carlos on Unsplash
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  • Friends,  Personal Favorites,  Prose and poetry

    You, me, and the sea

    But time makes you bolder, even children get older. And I’m getting older, too.

    Landslide, Fleetwood Mac

    “I’m happy we’re doing this,” you said. “We haven’t really talked like this in a while, and I’ve been wanting to speak with you.”
    I perked up a little, trying to blink the drowsiness from my heavy eyes. I wanted to listen, to truly hear what you had to say. Then again, you never did have much trouble catching my attention.

    tent on beach
    Photo by Jamison McAndie on Unsplash
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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships


    clouds cloudy dawn dramatic
    Photo by Ghost Presenter on Pexels.com

    I don’t like it when you’re away.

    And I don’t just mean

    when you’re far from the reach

    of my arms.

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  • Depression and anxiety,  Mental health,  Prose and poetry

    How I started my morning

    happy coffee
    Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

    I was drinking coffee this morning

    watching the news

    when the anchor said an accident had occurred

    in the city where I worked.

    The streets were all

    too familiar.

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  • Prose and poetry


    emotions feelings emotion feeling
    Photo by Katii Bishop on Pexels.com

    On Facebook and Instagram, with a thousand followers, your carefully curated feed.

    Scenes of nature: mountains, and beaches with water as clear as can be.

    Beautifully plated food in a restaurant whose interior must have cost a small fortune.

    Fashionable OOTDs of you showing off your physical perfection in a flowing floral skirt.

    Photos of family and friends and your lover, all of whom seem as perfect as you, impeccably dressed, with Kodak smiles.

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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    What Cigarettes Contain

    “4000+ chemicals, 43 of which are carcinogenic.” (From quitsmokingsupport.com)

    I like you in the way I like my cigarettes – always onhand. A constant. I am always craving more. Always wanting just one more hit – one more kiss.

    And yet you are infinitely better for me than these carcinogen sticks. And I don’t just mean good for my body. I mean good for my heart, good for my soul. Yet you both make me feel breathless.

    cigarettes, smoking

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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    everything is better when it’s new

    new, beach, sea, blue, brown, poetry, love, relationships

    that new car smell
    a fresh pack of cigarettes
    an unopened book –
    newness makes us believe,
    hope for something
    than what we have
    if that’s the case,
    then why
    do i crave
    the familiarity of
    your face
    your gaze
    your arms as they graze
    against mine?
    is overrated.
    i long
    for you
    in the long

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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    you, the beach

    beach, poetry