Human Complexity
Personifying the daily emotions of a human
Sometimes I sit with uneasiness, its company filling the empty spaces, the empty silences. It pricks and pokes at the tiny holes between breaths, between thoughts, between the seconds in which I believe I exist. Other times I dance run wild with joy, laughter on the wind, my heart soaring as I leap from cloud to cloud. Occassionally I find sadness or comfort in my bed, and I am not always sure which one is laying beside me. Is the dark the result of sadness covering my eyes or because comfort has wrapped in too tightly in my blanket? My strangest companion is loneliness who exists but doesn't. Ever present in its absence. Each feeling a part of myself, separate and intrinsic, real and artificial, flat and complex. Contradictions that are logical and necessary.
About the Creator
Kristen Campbell
Hi, I’m Kristen Campbell, a grad student and stay-at-home wife. I love my pets, crafting, gaming, and traveling. After 5 years of teaching, I’m focused on learning, healing from trauma, and living life creatively and fully.
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More stories from Kristen Campbell and writers in Poets and other communities.
Real Girl
I feel like clouds of lightning in the dark, but the lightning is black. Static that is sharp and clinging to the binary in my mind. I am good. I am bad. I am angel. I am demon. Binary. On. Off. On. Stuck somewhere in the middle, between living and dying, like mushrooms born of decay. If I’m born of decay can goodness exist? My brain keeps telling me I’m broken. Useless. Deluded. Insane. Dead inside. But if I’m dead inside why does my heart hurt so much, so often. Like a gaping wound with him screaming at me from inside. Fingers clawing at me, trying to break out, to make me as broken as he is. Why is he even here? Why does he matter? Why are his nails so long, why do his teeth gnaw at me? Jagged stumps in bloody gums telling me I deserve this. I can’t get better because I’m not a real girl. I’m just a blow up doll filled with air and cum and hatred. Sit me on the couch and hold my hand, the squeak of rubber on plastic, of the air escaping out of the hole you crawled through, like a balloon stabbed with a toothpick. Thousands of tiny pricks. I look for blood to ooze, pour, spray, but then I remember I’m not a real girl after all.
By Kristen Campbellabout a year ago in Poets
If You Love Me, You'll Do It
I met Jason when I was five years old. I could say that I loved him from the moment I saw him. He was so handsome to me and I felt in awe by his presence. When they introduced him as the new kid in school, I wanted to be his friend right away. I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember his smile and how he didn't seem shy. He appeared confident and ready to learn. I waved at him and said "hello," before anyone else could even say a word. He sat next to me, and I asked him if he wanted to be friends. He looked so happy as he said, "Yes!"
By Sidney Smith (Sid Smith)8 days ago in Fiction
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