Me and HerMature

Poems of mental distress


I’m sorry, the optimist cannot come out to play today,

She’s chained up in a dark cavity,

Somewhere in the basement of my emotional cortex.

Fuck the bitch,

She gets enough playtime.


It’s my turn now.

I come out about four times a year,

And my kind of play is sick and twisted,

Carving one word into the skin of this body

Repeatedly with my fingernails,


The End

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