I was a different poet a month ago.
I was a different poet last week, as well as yesterday.
I am a new one today
with stories and emotions
that clash and fight with each other
that is why some days my poems are sad
others are happy
because it all depends on what side of me wins today.

Still unsure how to love myself.

there is a man inside of me
he swears and screams
he is violent and
mean, unafraid of confrontation
i attempt to **** him with cigarettes
and *****
he only grows
and now he sleeps
in my throat

I miss using words
like acrylic paint
I miss the strokes
my mind would create
but nothing feels
as good as peace
there isn’t one word
that can give that kind of release