one-shot, as always

my body however small is a garden of land mines
mostly ticklish leaving all muscles taut on high alert
a compost pile of sad ones that smell of what i didn't do and what i can't forget, or who
and the others hidden dark look like nothing
they didn't make me cry don't let them make you walk away

my mental state yesterday. title is Stomachache.

hating myself is the flavor of dark green undertone of olives, salty good like tears then suddenly foul, gray, slippery

knowing you tastes like stomach medicine
sweet berry then dull burning embers catch my tastebuds after the mouthful
chalky temporary relief until reality sets in again

makes my mouth twist with sour acid

I never ever post poetry online, and i don't think this one is particularly phenomenal, but it's a start

You
should probably be nervous around me nervous about me
I
see what you try to keep hidden hear the words you don't say, if
You
shut up use your eyes not your tongue
My untrained subconscious
starts telling with the corners of my eyes and teeth against lips