We all get touched here

I remember when

A day long ago, yet not so far

I looked at her and said “what’s the big deal, what’s she crying about”

Because we all get touched

Why does she get to cry

And get your pity and empathy

When I said it, no one believed me

Or maybe they just didn’t care

So of course I didn’t support her

I mocked her

“Get over it” I thought

We all get touched here

Unwilling and unwanting

They get what they want

So stop crying

“It’s not a big deal”

Because if you hurt, I might need to hurt too

If you cry, I might need to cry too

See, it’s not that I didn’t believe you

Or that I thought you shouldn’t hurt

It’s that it hurts to bad to recognize what happens

To recognize how it feels

It’s easier to be cold

And numb

And “get over it”

Although we never will

#metoo

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For my sanity

This is for me

Not for you

Not just for your view

For my sanity

For my release

So why is it here?

Asking for your approval?

Why not in my notebook that sits idly by? 

I may say it’s convenient.

To type on this app…

To leave my notebook behind.

But is it not just my desire to connect?

My desire for approval?

Dark reflections and introspections

Isn’t it interesting when realities become nightmares.

 I toss and turn at night, crying in my sleep as my heart rebreaks in a dream. Mind of mine, let me lay in peace. I do not wish for his face to haunt me and I do not wish for the future to taunt me. Let me rest. Let me recover. Life is challenging enough without your dark reflections and introspections. 

I wish to lay still; to be still.

Toothbrush

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/2017/08/01/toothbrush/

I glance at the bathroom. The door is wide open. I can hear the water running in the shower. The sheet has fallen to the floor and I lay on the bare bed. It’s stained and worn. I see something that looks like blood and wonder who else has laid on this bare bed with the sheet fallen to the floor. It smells musty. A bit old, maybe almost rotten, yet somehow I like the smell. It smells familiar and comfortable, yet I’ve never been here. I look back into the bathroom. The mirror is foggy from the steam and drips onto the counter. There’s a glass jar. I notice a toothbrush. It’s frailed with green grips, but there’s another. This one seems fresh. The grips are pink. Pink. Would he have a second toothbrush for himself that is pink? Or have I done it again? Laid and somehow betrayed. I shuttered at the thought. It feels like just yesterday I faced a girl with a broken heart. Who wanted to blame me, to hate me, and maybe she did, but more she hated herself for loving him. I can’t do this again. I can’t face this other toothbrush. I grab my clothes. I rush out unexplained.

I can only write my perspective of reality. If I post it, I mean it with all of my soul, at least for that moment that I write.