Little Sick-o’s

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Hello lovelies. Did you miss me? No. I am sure that you did not. Seeing as society tells us not to show yearning for anyone else but ourselves. Or…perhaps you did miss me, yet the though of admitting that is terrifying. Just like admitting that you are reading this…right now. My thoughts. Id like to consider myself “The Phantom” writer. Do you really know who I am? Do you know what is in my twisted, sick mind? No, I suppose that you do not. And I suppose that I do not know what is inside of your sick proverbial minds as well.

Oh come on, don’t be coy. You know all of our minds can be sick at some point. Maybe all the time? Yes? Sick with fear? Sick with love? Hate? Wrath? Envy? How about all of they above. How exhausting to be so sick all of the time? Do I admit this of myself? Ahh, you will have to wait and see wont you. To a terrifying degree we are all sick with something constantly. That is why we live in a Prozac nation. There are some whom keep their illnesses to themselves…and there are those who put it out there every chance they get, don’t they? These people make my skin hurt. Why? Because you are gross. You put the foulest taste in my mouth. Because you want sympathy from a world you are never going to get it from. Life is hard. Life is cruel. Get use to it, or get use to the idea that if you do not…you will be picked off very soon. Weather it is by your own demise, or that of another’s. Beware kiddos.

As you read, you think about yourself and your sickness. And you yearn to know mine. But I have only poured it out on the written page for you, oh so many times. Read through what I am saying. And it as if I am laying naked in front of you all. Exposed. Humiliated. Yet so real. Delicate. Porcelain like. Like a pretty doll. Dropped, forgotten with time. But I have a story too. Wont anyone play with me? Dress me. Love me? Please. The longer I sit here in the dark and dust, the worse my sickness grows. Love me. Hold me.

Be inflicted with whatever you are inflicted with but do not deny it. For then you are your truly weakest self. Do not pur it out on social medias for the unnoticing world to see because they wont. And neither will you if you keep that God awful blindfold upon your face. Wake up and survive. Be sick. Because no one is going to do it for you.

Love the biggest sick-o,

Mama Muava

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