Nik Sokol

A bee sitting on a flower.

It’d be wrong of me to say

that I don’t like the taste of iron on my tongue

from the bites my teeth keep making

Or the hues of red I find escaping from my cuticles

Every time I pick, whenever it may be

Except at night when its worse

and I no longer have the will to fight it

the moth drawn to the flame, over and over

only except of dying — it’s a never ending cycle

that ends with me, alone in guilt

at how the compulsions won’t stop

and that my ‘insanity’ is more normal

then trying to be sane

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Nik Sokol

Nik Sokol

They are pursuing a bachelor’s degree in psychology, and have found their voice through writing and art.