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Come Yee


Our Father wear his favorite belt. The blackness of its leather stung.

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Published by: hermourningcoffee

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 and deep-rooted trauma, fear, anger, insecurity, and vulnerability. I heal with every stroke of the pen. Night Falls, I fear myself. I AM the monster underneath my bed. I do not wish to provoke you.  As you venture into my headspace, you ARE a willing participant. Disclaimer: 40/60 IRT

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