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It’s rained.
Crawdads swept up on the street.
I chase them down with small bare-feet.
Across the street, there rises steam.
The neighbor makes hot oysters sing.
Carolina, is still that child—
She’s in my heart, she’s roaming free.
No need to brush your hair, little Bee.
I like it stringy.
I like black feet.
The story here is one of Me.
It’s where I copped the name “Beezee”
Where I road bikes and scraped my knees.
I ducked and dived and climbed up trees.
It’s forever and a day so sweet.
Nostalgia is my favorite street.
Messy hair, black feet, no shame.
I love the sound of rain
like christmas and a candy cane,
I love the sound of Thunder
like halloween and laughter,
You and I go together
like forever.
2021
Healing doesn't come from
revisiting a wound

It comes from releasing it
We dress the wreckage
Hang fairy lights in the ruins
And call it ambiance
Throw words like 'Resilience' at bleeding walls
To feel like we survived on purpose
We stitch apologies on shirts we outgrew
Paint over scorch marks
With pastel hope
And act surprised when the fire
Still smells like us
We prop the broken door open
With books about healing and call it art
A metaphor
Anything but what it is
Grief in a new dress
Still dragging the same bones
The weight of unspoken words
-Sorelle
This home is not our dwelling place.
We are all just a passing through.
Come snow,rain or sunshine.
It is ours to weather through.
So let us be courageous.
Standing,tall and strong.
As we weather through them all.
Knowing we are not alone.
Stand Tall.
Stand Strong.
Be courageous.
Live in victory.
And never let go.
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I ride the carousel, round in my mind,
Each figure a name I swore I’d forget
A sardonic grin on the face of time,
Spinning through kisses and cold regret.

He whispered in lust making false vows,
Then vanished into the dark of night.
The shame still stains my silence now,
A bruise that blooms beneath the light.

Another wore dreams like a cheap disguise,
Painted in promises, glossed with gold.
But the facade cracks beneath his lies,
And love runs dry when hearts grow cold.

They repeat like haunted tunes,
Ghosts dressed nice, soaked in sin
A dance beneath a distant moon,
Where every ending dares begin.

Still I continue, I never learn,
Addicted to the aching thrill
To love that sours, to bridges burned,
To wounds that beg to open still.
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