Psychosis is a parrot with a sharp beak.
I am terrible at dying.
I would rather wash dishes than intentionally bore someone.
I was a door with a rusty lock and a broken bell.
Today, truth matters to me.
When will I fall into myself?
I use to not wake but wake, if that makes sense.
It is cold in my skin.
Shame settles in like peeing accidentally in my pants.
A balloon will pop if too much pressure is applied.
I have let go of the coin.
The Phoenix sun is strong, wood thrown onto an already burning fire.
Eventually, the toothpick inserted into the cake comes out clean.
Writing is like having all the cherries line up on the slot machine.