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

Nik Sokol

Nik Sokol

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