Hold the stress in the palm of the hand, crush it, and watch it sprinkle to the ground, so fine and pink it looks like it could be crusted on cupcakes.
Send the thought "I'm not good enough" into a wooden crate and place it in a freight ship bursting with cargo. Watch the ship slowly drift away, into the ocean, across endless blue.
When the throat and face get hot with envy and rage, cool them with a sip of cold chocolate kisses, melting down the throat, coating the mouth in sugary goo, preventing a regretful word from being said.
When sadness triggers the eyes, let them be, let the tears flow down the cheeks and dribble from the chin. Let the tears dry on the soft skin and leave a trace of conspicuous emotion, as if the face were bathed in salt water.
Grab the fear from the crevices of the diaphragm and exhale it all. Like bad smoke, it only rots the lungs, for fear has no place in the body. Feel it burn a little as it rolls out the nostril, and floats away with the stale air in the bedroom.
Soothe the ache in the heart with the remedy of touch, of a handshake with a stranger, a peck from family, a soft kiss from a lover, or a pink tongue lick from a pet.
There is an explicable power in words. The words that one hears, and the words that one mutters to herself. Words can be self-inflicted sword wounds, but they can also be stitches. I always forget to say nice words to myself more often.
Send the thought "I'm not good enough" into a wooden crate and place it in a freight ship bursting with cargo. Watch the ship slowly drift away, into the ocean, across endless blue.
When the throat and face get hot with envy and rage, cool them with a sip of cold chocolate kisses, melting down the throat, coating the mouth in sugary goo, preventing a regretful word from being said.
When sadness triggers the eyes, let them be, let the tears flow down the cheeks and dribble from the chin. Let the tears dry on the soft skin and leave a trace of conspicuous emotion, as if the face were bathed in salt water.
Grab the fear from the crevices of the diaphragm and exhale it all. Like bad smoke, it only rots the lungs, for fear has no place in the body. Feel it burn a little as it rolls out the nostril, and floats away with the stale air in the bedroom.
Soothe the ache in the heart with the remedy of touch, of a handshake with a stranger, a peck from family, a soft kiss from a lover, or a pink tongue lick from a pet.
There is an explicable power in words. The words that one hears, and the words that one mutters to herself. Words can be self-inflicted sword wounds, but they can also be stitches. I always forget to say nice words to myself more often.
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