Psycho

Hearts bruise as apples do. Some will show up only to poke these soft purple patches with forks. Slowly, the uncleansed insides of your mind will split open, and sting like lemon juice on an open wound.

So then if hearts are fragile things, don’t slice anothers in half from fear that they may slice first. Don’t be afraid to stay and risk being seen in everything unspoken. Beauty isn’t healing cream that erases wrinkles; beauty is going against a history of betrayal to try again. The aged cuts on your arms, soggy pits of depression, and a cocktail of inhaled trauma that curls around your sleep, now they see you.

Psycho, psycho, psycho rolls off their tongues like water. They hunted for the sweetness of your body only to turnaround and walk three miles away. Don’t stop healing at your own pace to live in the dark fairytale of their shadow.

Crumble, cry, scream, throw things, shred cotton pillowcases like paper, and give your anger room to grieve over all the thieves that dress as angels. Let them judge, let them uninvite, let them ignore.

Incredible, your bones still bend into miracles.

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