Yes, it hurts
Yes, it hurts worse knowing there is someone that could help but they choose not too
Yes, it hurts knowing that person says they love you daily
Yes, it’s trash that live does not always come in the form desired
….. or needed
But, C’est la vie
We’re here
The demons only bother me when they act up.
Usually, they’re pretty chill.
Nearly 24 hrs in,
I’ve found my comfy spot.
Yay! I think
But I know the recovery is worse.
This is my daily, weekly, monthly.
I’ve given up the idea of change
Now it’s just survival
Maybe…
Perhaps one day I’ll give in
About the Creator
Moni Staxx
I write through my emotions. Each poem is an excerpt from the moment in time I’m existing in at the time of writing.
My short stories reflect past observances, insights, and imaginative reflections on situations.
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1:49am
4/16/25 1:49am I want to breathe death in my larynx and feel loose change in the torn and raggedy pockets of my mother’s cardigan. The water is next to the bed. It’s not cold and never will be. So I guess what’s left is us; we will walk with crooked feet on a path carved by ancient societies. You will borrow my shoes. I will taste vengeance in my tea and convince myself it’s good for my liver. Coffee is fine too. Yes, that’s all. I will think about how I want to kiss you and, the clouds, they will rise to space, and leaves, they will glue their limbs back together. The sun has been out for weeks. This screw isn’t any looser than when I bought it. But I will wake up and I will be in the ship that splits in two and slide my sullen palms across its tundric pillow. I never took swimming lessons so whatever happens is meant to be. I’m sorry if that upsets you. I’m sorry I said that. Anyway, I want to lie nude in wildflowers with ants who build colonies and worms who can’t see. You have a problem with textures. You can’t help it. I could try to tell you things, like how I want my children to understand how little everything is and to not be afraid of the giant fingers that grab at sewing needles in their dreams. I could say it always scared me. It’s just not right. But listen, back to it: I want to indulge in passion and binge affection. Is it a sin if it helps? I will endure the things I am given and inculcate everyone around me to do the same. Do five laps around the block before you respond, whatever helps. I will tell you I want harmony to be palpable and wheels of recognition to be locked in an imperishable gear. Refill the pot if it’s empty. What I want has nothing to do with me. Diagonal tile is cold, you know, and my hair gets crunchy after too long out there. I want this lesson to end.
By Olivia Dodge5 days ago in Poets
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