You carry a basket of flowers with dead roses in your hair. You plant them with hope of a newborn garden; oh to bloom despite the clouds...

I hate hatred. It sounds so ironic and I feel like a hypocrite when I say it. I hate what? Hate? Hold on, so I'm embracing the very thing...

"I gave birth to a stillborn" "I can’t stop crying" "I want to die" "I’m hungry" "I can’t find a place to live" "Abused, my whole life"...