She controls me. And I just begin to drink alone in August.
I walked away unable of full compassion, and strength became a tool unused. Her words are like nails that puncture my conscience, hanging what was dances alone neatly in my mind.
Such a strange shame—fully alive and aware.
I felt her harsh wrath in union with my love, in part her eyes in tears altered the therapy of her sound.
Claim me once again, of romance the intent of love, shake away my thoughts, and bare me your generosity of rest.
Control me once again…
Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger, 