Creative Writing · Depression · Free Write · Poetry · Writing

I remember being a child and chasing moths around my room on hot summer nights. My parents in the kitchen, my sister in the next room sleeping.

The house that we grew up in was warm but confusing. A boiling pot of water and a crystal clear balloon.


There were birthdays and night time cuddles but in between was deep despair. From both ends, no way to run. Nowhere safe to be.


I know that they love me but sometimes love isn’t enough.

I have learned this the hard way over and over again.


I must have sacrificed my other life because of this–my inherent desire to love until death. It killed me once, killed me two times.


I watch my life pass now in the spring with fireflies. The lavender outside my door and sunflowers in my window sill.


I long to paint my sorrows across the board, if only you would see.


The spirit longs for what the earth can not give.


My heart shatters and I know now that I was born broken. 

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