One-hundred and Thirty-six: Post Secret

Sometimes it feels like the girl I was
(before it all happened)
didn’t survive.
This is so sad and so untrue.
There has always been
an ocean of words and piano keys
inside me and now I’m finally
making songs.

All it took was one little candle,
a silly mistake,
a thousand hearts
and some sushi,
but I did it;
I am finally singing,
albeit the blues.
I sing.

I sing with the peace of a woman
that has carved pain on her skin,
under her skin, so many times
that her body is a collage of it all.

I am going to post a secret to no one at all:
Sometimes, successful suicides leave me envious.
I don’t know if I will ever have the courage to let go.
I wish existing could be chopped and changed,
so I could die now. And be alive again tomorrow.

I would like to edit this one. I should like to edit all of them.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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