L. J. Knight
Bio
I'm the girl who writes poetry in coffee shops, who walks the halls with a book under her nose, lost in her thoughts. I'm the girl with the quiet voice and the smart eyes, the one who dreams for the moon and hopes to land among stars.
Stories (42)
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I Am Not A Trend
I was reading some stories on vocal in psyche, as you do, scrolling through the ones about depression and anxiety and tips and advice, everything I've seen and lived before when I came across one about dissociation. I lit up inside like a little child, excited to see something that's a huge part of my life finally being talked about and represented. And the first few paragraphs lived up to my expectations.
By L. J. Knight 4 years ago in Psyche
Please Don't Hurt Me
Please don’t hurt me. Those words repeated over and over again in my head. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please. I grew up in a home of fear. Behind every corner lurked another danger. Sometimes it was my brother. His OCD had gotten bad again and seeing his panic would snap me back to the times when I was little and I would accidentally touch something I wasn’t supposed to, and he would scream and scream and scream at me. Other times it was my dad. He’d be boiling over with the rage he kept holed up inside of him until he exploded, ready to lay on me all my faults and shortcomings. Most of the time it was my mom. Her expectations, guilt trips, and scalding tone would send me reeling back into a childlike state where all I could think were those four words.
By L. J. Knight 4 years ago in Psyche
A Bull For Strength
(This is the fifth installment of the My Alternate series. If you haven't already, read the first here.) Shark dropped the streamers and cursed. He climbed down the step stool and picked them up, returning to aggressively tape them on the doorknob with a triumphant grin.
By L. J. Knight 4 years ago in Fiction
It Was The Perfect Day For a Funeral
(This is the fourth installment of the My Alternates series. If you haven't already, read the first here.) Phoebe held the bouquet of marigolds tight between her fingers. She pinched at the stiff fabric of her slacks and shifted the hem of her blouse. Her shoulders ached from the tension in her neck. Her eyes didn’t lift from the trampled grass at her feet.
By L. J. Knight 4 years ago in Fiction
