Smoke me into your lungs.
Breathe me in slow,
as if you’re savoring
something dangerous
but necessary.

Let me flow through you,
your chest,
your bloodstream,
your thoughts
until I reach your brain
and settle there,
quietly unraveling the edges
of what you thought you knew.

Let me blur your vision,
soften the sharp parts
until all that’s left
is warmth and ache.

Let me live beneath your skin,
humming low,
like a secret you keep
but never tell.

Exhale me,
and I’ll still linger
in the spaces between breaths,
in the soft hush
before sleep.

I don’t want to be forgotten.
I want to be felt.
Like smoke that leaves its trace
long after the fire is gone.

I wake up to nothing
       but chirping birds
            and the drip of coffee
                   pouring down,
            and wonder how I feel
       about it all—
             and find it refreshing
       to know I see it
            like a fairy fountain,
       standing tall—
calling me to slip on shoes
    and even walk on air
         if that’s what I choose.

Children rush past me,

I hold on to the edge, no --


longer a mother.

You are too beautiful
to be touched
by anyone, by me

alone, I hope
if I may, if I dare
to do what someone may one day

I pass your house
There is only a window
between me and your bed

in which I dream myself
when I cannot sleep
and hold my breath

and time stands still
intoxicated by your lips
I feel your hand

on my chest, no
I won't run away
when you open the door

I'm just a bit peckish
and ready for a skirmish,
said the early bird
who was feeling wormish!

Say you love me
like I love you
often and always
a million times
embrace me
consume me
burn me with kisses

If you go deaf
I will stop listening
If you go blind
I will stop looking
If you die
I will stop living
.
.
Songs for this:
From The Start by Good Kid
Habits (feat. Haley Reinhart) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox
Lover Girl by Laufey
In a Manner of Speaking (feat. Camille) by Nouvelle Vague

I said:
“I think I have ADHD.”
They answered:
“No, you’re just a ******. Get a job.”

So I ran.
In circles.
Around a reality
that never gave me room to breathe—
just fingers pointed and ******* advice.

They didn’t see the war in my head,
just the pupils.
They didn’t hear the silence in me,
just the noise I made.

I asked for help—
they handed me judgment.
I reached out—
they recoiled,
like I carried plague and guilt in my veins.

And then—
years later,
when everything’s burned,
when I wear my diagnosis like scars and proof,
they show up.

With a box.
“Here’s Ritalin. It’ll help.”

Ritalin.
Legal speed.
The same thing they hated me for chasing
now handed over
wrapped in plastic and prescription smiles.

What the **** happened?
Was it the label that made me worthy?
The paperwork that made my scream real?

I was never chasing a high.
I was chasing peace.
I was never after drugs.
I just wanted to understand
why my mind never shut up.

But there was no room for that.
Not then.
Not until now.
Now that the system sees
what I’ve been screaming
the whole
****
time.

Some days,
it feels like I am outside myself
watching my child-self drown
beneath a skyless surface,
eyes wide, arms reaching,
and I, the adult,
do nothing but stare.

The water is still,
but heavy,
each second dragging me down,
each memory a stone.
My child-self drifts deeper,
hair flowing like seaweed,
a mouth open but silent,
watching the shape of me
blur in the distance.

I see the small hand
reaching upward
not angry,
not afraid,
just desperate
in a quiet, aching way.

And I,
frozen,
feel sorrow crack open
like a fault line,
a grief so old
it forgot how to scream.

I want to dive,
to pull them up,
but my feet won't move.
I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s too late.
Maybe I never learned how.
Maybe I believe I’m the one
who let them fall.

And still,
the hand rises,
the eyes search,
while I remain above,
a ghost
with lungs full of air
and a silence I can’t explain.

don't confuse, good at speaking, saying good word.