Subconscious hope—subliminal trust.
Broadcasted smiles, complementing valediction.
“See you later” not guaranteed.
Planning for tomorrow: weeks, months, years.
Units measured by every morning not promised.

Personified love—lit by life.
Standing at the doorway of a room stowed in stacked boxes.
Opening a journal, reliving heavy or joyous memories nearly forgotten.

Brittle—I have never been.
My heart plays tag with my stomach.
My emotions bob on a trampoline, and looking empty has never felt so free.

Appetizingly bittersweet—a mortal feat.
My dream embodies the other extreme.
In my chest, a disorder meet-and-greet,
Shaking hands and establishing brands.
Shame seeps from the soles of my feet,
Leeching into the earth. Swift. Bleak.



Monday, 5 May 2025