• 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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  • 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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  • Friends,  Mental health,  Ruminations

    I will always believe in you even when no one else will, not even you

    He spots me smoking alone and staring off into space. Lost in my Spotify playlist, I don’t notice him approach until he taps me on the shoulder and asks, “Are you okay?”

    He didn’t need to wait for an answer. I couldn’t speak, anyway. I just collapsed into his embrace.

    gelo

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  • Relationships

    ’til next weekend

    stack of love wooden blocks
    Photo by Ylanite Koppens on Pexels.com

    “Get up. Let’s dance,” you said.

    As I molded my body to yours, we swayed back and forth, even with no music in the background. Just our conversation and soft laughter. I press myself against your chest and listen closely to your heartbeat.

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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
    better
    than what we have
    now.
    if that’s the case,
    then why
    do i crave
    the familiarity of
    your face
    your gaze
    and
    your arms as they graze
    against mine?
    newness
    is overrated.
    i long
    for you
    in the long
    haul.

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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    you, the beach

    beach, poetry

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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    First impressions

     
    The first time we met, you decided you will never like me. I get drunk too easily, I smoke too much, and I’m obnoxiously loud. I’m constantly thinking about food, and I always seem to say the wrong things. My taste in music was weird, and my words were caustic as can be.
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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    I’d like to take care of you

    I’d like to make you coffee every morning. Morning, noon, nighttime, daybreak… At any hour, whenever you want it. I know how much you enjoy a hot cup of joe; I know that it helps you write and work.


    Speaking of work, I’d like to tell you to get some sleep. I’d get mad that you’re still up at 4AM and nag you to go to bed. You’d think that I don’t understand that you need to work, but I’d just be worried about your health.

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