Forbidden Treasure

He could have scratched his itchWith one of the many women in this worldWho justifiably enjoy casual sex.Instead, he thought it would be more funTo see if he could breakThe heart of a demisexual. Now, I am at the centre of his debate;Of whether he loved meOr merely lusted over my body.I regret that I

Pinch Me PTSD

I learned never to leave the trodden pathBy walking into a wasp nest.For the 150 wasps that attacked me,Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt that much.Each sting didn’t hurt more than a pinch.But I suppose trauma sometimes doesn’t careAbout how much it hurt in the first place.When you re-live the helpless fear of running through a forestLike

Newspaper Clippings

Newspaper clippings in your mind of things you would rather forget. You’d prefer to live with ghosts than with these words of shame. A ghost’s empty, feathery mist may be made of cold sorrow But the edges contain the final remnants of happier times. Newspapers are made of ash. Their success depends on burning hatred.