Pus Pocket


I had a very long, hard cry sitting outside the house that once provided a safe refuge from myself. Chain-smoking to steady my nerves and whiskey neat collect my tears. So much time has passed, yet the incision still bleeds. Mounds of dressings and direct pressure, the infliction has progressed to an infected wound.

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Published by: her mourning coffee

Walking a fine line between genius and insanity. My words are raw, sometimes visceral, and vulgar.  I write to settle my thoughts.  I have triggers that extract emotional immaturity, deep- rooted fears, anger, insecurity, vulnerability, yet I heal with every stroke of the pen.  I might be that monster.  I sometimes scare myself.  Please keep this in mind as you read.  I do not wish to provoke you, though stories need to be told. *not all posts are in real time

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