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This lumpy mass buckles
Between my ribs
Perturbs the sound of silence
I stretch, I spread
Across a rough draft of suicide
Holding on to
Possessions that may never exist

Our dreams are all possible
Because of three pounds of grey matter
We can convince ourselves of anything
We can convince ourselves of anything
We can convince ourselves there’s nothing
We can’t convince ourselves of
Anything

Pennies,
Worth only as much
As the struggle paid to pick them up
We walk over our disbeliefs
Hugging our pride
We drag ideas of who we should be
To compare ourselves
Left from right
Right from wrong
Startled by the unexpected
I go somewhere I can’t come back from
Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m doing
Until I see what I’ve done

With my curiosity
I can attempt failure and
Dare to be weak but
I often fear how my weakness is perceived
And there are moments
Like this one
Moments I decide to embrace the mystery
Let go of who I think I should be
To be who I am
To be vulnerable
To be abstract
To let faith cling to me
Not knowing what I know and
Unlearning what I believed
But born accustomed to chaos
The peace
…is killing me.

Britta B.

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