I Need To Get This Out Of My System The strangest thing happened in class today. I am in my first year of college as a Child and Youth worker, and my professor is such a bitter, picky woman. We all dreaded doing the silly "stone sharing" activity that she planned. We all had to pick a rock that stood out to us, share something significant about ourselves, And pass the rocks along until your rock was touched by everyone and was returned to you. What a weird thing to do, right? This therapeutic activity made me sob! Everything was fine, I started to talk about my beloved dog, and it was great... And then i welled up and the tears just started. This is my first experience with a random "emotional trigger". This crazy lady was so smart! I felt pretty humiliated, sobbing and being reassured by my friend, but I began to think of how much dogs have been to me growing up as a traumatized, grief stricken kid. My faithful companion, my comfort, is my emotional trigger. Not in a bad way, but just to reflect on how good she is to me. How much I have gone through, with my four-legged friend to cry on. Another girl broke down too. It was so strange. I have never experienced something so deep. I have never felt so beside myself. This lady has tricks up her sleeve. Do not underestimate anyone.

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My head is painfully empty. Reality is a dark ocean that has swept me from this place and myself. My tired hands ache to compose something beautiful.

Him Soft are his pink petal lips as they brush against mine like a warm feather. Blue are his eyes, shimmering oceans in his irises. Dark is his hair, like warm smooth chocolate. And his skin is fair, with a scar for every demon, silver in the light. He is a strange perfection of imperfections, With a hard, ancient soul. He is the cure for a blackened heart, And a brightness in the dark.

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Stop filling me with meds like a fucking Pez dispenser and help me. One to sleep One to awaken My biological freedom has been taken. Capsules, tablets, Bottles, packets. I'm a slave to a pile of bottles with my name on them.

Stretch Marks I'm okay with embracing my curves. The shaped feminine figure gives the body character. But with a carved sculpture like mine, the canvas cannot simply be blank. The smooth curves are covered in marks more shameful than scars. Hideous, purple lines that creep like branches and shine in the light, screaming for attention. They spread like an illness, embedded in my flesh. This natural flaw is like a splash of blood on a white wall. It stands out, and it is sickening. The flawed flowers are never picked. But I say I've earned my stripes, and I will wear them with pride. An original is worth more than a copy. Screw the flowers. No pair of snowflakes are ever identical.

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