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Letters from the Edge of Tolerance

This is where I document life lived with CPTSD, ADHD, DID, OCD, abandonment trauma, rage, and the long term psychological consequences of instability. Not for sympathy. Not for inspiration. For examination.

I write about trauma the way a mechanic tears down an engine. Piece by piece. What broke. Why it broke. What it still does under stress.

You will find poems that bleed without asking to be saved. Essays that dissect ethical BDSM, power exchange, dominance, consent, and responsibility without romantic illusion. Reflections on betrayal, identity, dissociation, religion, rage, control, and the uncomfortable mathematics of trust.

This is not a healing space. It is an honest one.

I do not frame survival as beautiful. I frame it as necessary.

If you are looking for optimism, look elsewhere.

If you want unfiltered analysis from someone who has lived at the upper edge of tolerance for decades and still functions, read on.

Existence is not always a gift.

Sometimes it is a condition.
5 years ago. Monday, September 14, 2020 at 5:22 AM

Love comes and love goes, we all may understand it, or we all may wish for it. We all take our blows, we  all sing along. We write many songs to describe it. So why not smile and show this futile world all you love, and the one you love.

The doves fly freely, and gracefully, making you smile seemingly out of control. We all see the beauty of the world when we are love struck thus we play those very songs we right over and over yet again.
I sold my soul to the one I love, the woman of mine dreams yet why doth so many say why not send her a dove, why not send her a rose. Is romance uet dead? Or do we just not show the chivalry we used too?
Sending her my soul says I will always be yours forever and always. Yet this poem says I am in love with a girl I hold dear, though that may not always be the case. For we all face the pains and strife of life.

I do not fear at this moment, fore that I'll lose her to someone other than myself cause I can yet see that glitter in her eyes, that one we all call wonderlust. I talk to her, and we laugh, and smile together this poem is something, I shall write to show love for a person I do yet care about. I pray to the gods that she will never cease to love me as she owns my soul for I gave her the key to mine heart.

We all know that people may change, and one can become bored with another, or they no longer love them the same as the did before. This is the change we all fear, for if you do not you are not but an empty shell, whos hell is the lust we all wish we could have. 

Thus unto you I shall not seeth lest I too become nothing more the a husk of the man I was before.

 


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