I hate men.


UntitledUpon finding my old work uniform I can’t help but examine it. I stretch the old cotton, turn it inside out, I press it to my face and take a deep breath inwards, as if I can pull some precious extra moment of time I wore it back to mind. I try to recall the first time I put this shirt on, who was I back then, would I ever have imagined who I would be now? I remember when I wore this shirt for the first time. I hadn’t experienced the hard work and physical pain of manual labor then, but more importantly I hadn’t experienced the feeling of butterflies in my stomach, I’d never missed someone standing right in front of me.Untitled
When I ent


The people you changeI don't have to convince myself that I can love people. I know that I can love people. I also know that I can love the new fresh Idea of people, and that I can love the way people make me feel. I can love the things that people can replace, and I can come to love the people that replace them. The hard part is knowing why I love people. Is it because they are genuine and amazing and real? Or could it be because no one has ever made me feel so good about myself? Could it even possibly be how they remind me of someone from a long time ago?The people you change
I sometimes think, I might not know which it is, until it's too late, and I'm too deep in to g


A moment of usIn the silence, I can hear the slight rasp of his inhale. The little coarseness of his breath and voice, that's from smoking. The slightly deeper rumble when he talks, that is lack of sleep. The unnatural bend of his right arm, that's from a trampoline accident. The scar on his shoulder, that's from a fence.A moment of us
The heavy-lidded look, the hair pushed out of his face, the softer, more careful voice he now has?
That's from me.
I shift, one arm trapped beneath me, the other with fingertips pressed to a foreign spine. Our legs tangled, I can hear my breathing loud and echoing in my ears, he moves just a bit "Can
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"We and the labouring world are passing by:
Amid men's souls, that waver and give place
Like the pale waters in their wintry race,
Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,
Lives on this lonely face."
- William Butler Yeats, The Rose of the World
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I wrote your name on the bullet so you would be the last thing going through my head
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