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December 5th, 2021

Gender: Female
Status: Swinger
Age: 26
Country: United States

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September 16, 2021



12/05/2021 03:32 PM 

things i've learned in a mental hospital

1) Mental hospitals are more like dramas/comedies than horror
    films. When people think of psych wards they think of criminally
    insane people rocking back and forth, talking to their imaginary
    friends and throwing chairs. Don't get me wrong, there's some of
    those. But most of us just do word searches, color, joke about
    serious things.
2) We aren't monsters, we are your brothers, your daughters, your
    mother, your co-worker we are just regular people who have lost
    our way and need some help finding the path again
3) I am closer to people I knew for 2 weeks than I will ever be with
    anyone on the outside. Yes we all call it the outside
4) Sometimes talking to people who understand what you're going
    through is more therapeutic than the actual therapy groups. This
    is not to say that the doctors there are crap it is just to say that no  
    matter how much they read and listen they will never truly
    understand what it feels like unless they have been there and we
    can tell who has been there, they go the extra mile to make us
    feel like people
5) It's not a vacation, it's not fun, it's not an escape from the real
    world. It is the hardest thing I have ever done. It is work.
6) Everyone in there is a person in unbearable pain but it isn't just 
    a bunch of people sitting around crying. We go from group to
    group and then color and go to bed nothing about it is really fun
    but you get used to it
7) The mental hospital is like a camp for empty people, just like a
    band camp we can all relate to each other and makes you feel
    less alone
8) Getting discharged it a great feeling because you are free, but it
    is also completely terrifying, in the hospital it's safe, people get it,
    there is always someone to talk to and now you're all alone
9) Just because I've spent 7 and a half weeks in a mental hospital
    over 2 stays doesn't mean I am fixed there is no cure for my
    illnesses and that's just the way it is
10) We are not who you think, the kindest people I've ever met
     were also the ones hurting the most.


12/05/2021 03:21 PM 


Emotional Abuse.

Physical Abuse.

     Pants down, 
     Loss of control. 
Sexual Assault. 







     Gain control, 

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.






High risk. 


12/03/2021 11:30 PM 

Skin Deep

People always think it's the memories that aren't a part of her. None of them really understand, though, that the memories are the easiest part of being Rogue.

Memories are just thoughts attached to images attached to feelings. Marie can absorb those, make them her own. It doesn't matter where they come from—from her own past, from someone else's. Once they're inside her, they're hers.

But doesn't it get confusing? Bobby asked her once, squinting at her as if he'd already decided the answer was yes. She'd searched for words to tell him, tell him no, don't you see? Once they're in there, it's not like havin' someone else in my brain. It's all just me. But she could tell from his expression that the meaning would be lost on him.

Marie also doesn't bother trying to explain to them that it's her skin that's no longer her own. She can handle the strangers in her head; she can handle the powers that shouldn't be hers.

What she can't handle is the stranger that covers every inch of her body, and keeps her at arm's length from herself.


Afterwards, after needles and condemnations and dirty looks, it's like meeting an old friend after years of separation. She keeps the gloves for a few months, still scared of what might happen—what she might do—but after a season has turned and she hasn't hurt anyone, she starts to trust.

Maybe she's really at home, again.

She sits in the new summer sun, feeling as shy as an eleven year-old just becoming aware of her femininity. It's an appreciation she didn't have growing up, an acute self-consciousness forced upon her by image after image of pain caused by her touch. The names and faces well up behind the specks in her eyes when she glances up at the noon-day crest of light.

She sighs with the wind on her skin. No needle can grant her asylum from this, from the layers of guilt that are the basis of the power she had.

She's not sure she can excise it, not even one cell at a time.


She didn't do it for Bobby, but she's sure as hell ready to kill him when she catches him with Kitty. They don't even have the decency to pretend they're doing something innocent—he just looks down, unable to meet her eyes, and, really, that's all the answer she needs.

She didn't do it for Bobby.

But she'd be lying to herself if she tried to pretend that she hadn't thought—hadn't hoped—

Well. None of that really mattered now, did it?

Marie's used to being on her own.


She's ill at ease with the X-Men. They don't quite know what to do with her, anymore, and she doesn't quite know what to do with them. Logan tries to include her, come up with ways that she can be a part of the team even without her powers, but Ororo waits for no woman, and certainly no "misguided young girl who has alienated half of her classmates."

She wants to tell Ororo that being able to wear a tank top and dance until her chest burns at a club doesn't make her any less a member of the team. That losing the last traces of chains around ankles and claws emerging from her knuckles doesn't make her human.

The absence of power isn't what makes her human. It's not in her genes, or in the crest she wears on her uniform, or in the political party she votes for.

She isn't sure yet what will make her human, or if she even wants to be.


She gravitates to other mutants, a moth to new flames. There are others who don't compare her to what she was, all the things that they think she could have been: she likes meeting someone and not seeing a hint of disappointment flicker in their eyes when she can shake their hand.

They don't challenge her right to call herself Rogue.

She goes to a support group, meets some others who've been cured. Marie stays quiet, for the most part, but loves to listen, absorb the stories: here, she can do that, and no one has to get hurt.

And it's nice not to feel alone.


She meets Carol outside the building on a rainy Wednesday night; between closing her umbrella and juggling her backpack, Marie can hardly see where she's going, and they would have been a fast tangle of limbs on the ground if not for Carol's hand on the small of her back.

I'm so sorry, she says breathlessly, straightening up.

Carol's smile widens the more Marie tries to apologize, and Marie stops when she realizes that the woman's hand hasn't moved although she's completely steady on her feet now.

I'm so sorry about that, she says again, swallowing, her throat dry despite the high humidity in the air.

I'm not, Carol tells her, her fingers smoothing over Marie's waist when she does let go. I'm not sorry in the least.


Carol, Marie finds out later, was there for a group of her own.

Joe, she explains over coffee. They told us he died in battle.

It's another six meetings (at which point Marie is thoroughly tired of talking about her feelings) before she has the courage to say yes when Carol suggests a movie.

Dinner takes another three, but by then, it's Marie doing the asking.


Carol's strong—stronger than anyone Marie has ever known. She let nothing stand in her way: not her father, not the instructors who told her women weren't meant to be pilots, and certainly not Ms. Marvel. Each obstacle in her life she overcame with a single-minded determination and refusal to acknowledge that anything less than victory was an option.

Marie's glad she'll never have to face Carol on the opposite side of a battlefield.


Some nights, she wakes up in a cold sweat. Her dreams are vivid splashes of color—faces she's not supposed to remember, places she's never been. Her skin crawls, goosepimples rising all along her arms, but there's no cool air coming in. She keeps her window closed at night.

She scratches until pale pink turns to red, until she can't feel her heart pound with the knowledge of the last time her skin felt like this, and tosses and turns well into the dawn, swatches of light showing her things she doesn't want to see.


Y'all don't think…don't think it was only temporary?

She's braved the beige-and-blue meeting room again, gloves bunched nervously in her hands, knees locked tightly together. It's the question she refused to ask those first few months, sure she already knew the answer.

But a room full of heads shake at her, and Mrs. Hertzfeld tells her it's completely normal to still feel ghost sensations.

Like phantom limbs, she tells Marie, patting her comfortingly on the hand, give them time and they'll go away.


I don't know what to tell ya, kid. Logan neatly slices the apple in half, eating one-half of the green fruit with a decisive clench of his jaw. If Hank couldn't find anything, why're ya still worryin'?

Marie shrugs, her chin resting in her palm.

He offers her the other half, and shows no fear when her fingertips brush his knuckles. Then again, he never has.

It's why she likes him, and why she'll never completely trust him.


I don't think it's safe, she tells Carol, looking out the window so that she doesn't have to see the effect of her words. She's seen more than her share of disappointment and pain for one lifetime. At least this time it's for the best.

But Carol's strength, the same strength she admired, refuses to hear her. Carol's hands are sure, and they know all the places that Marie—that Rogue—can't say no to, those places that she's still getting re-acquainted with, the ones Carol has helped her make home again.

Carol tells her that Marie doesn't have the right to make this choice for her, and Marie knows she's right.

And she finds she can't say no when her body says yes.

Even now, she's the weaker of the two.


She's known all along that Carol has precognition—it's the excuse Carol used to take her on dizzying flights through the city, barely dodging buildings and trees in a mad aerial roller coaster ride.

I sense immediate danger and avoid it, Carol said, with her cocky fighter-pilot's smile. I won't let anything happen to you, love.

And she didn't. Every flight, they landed unscathed.

Marie hadn't seen Carol's pre-cognition as it was happening, but she recognizes it immediately, even before her skin screams out with a thousand pricking needles bursting up from under the surface, even before she collapses against Carol in a helpless throe of joint-wracking pain.

Carol looks at her, takes Marie's face in her hands; her eyes tremble, glaze slightly, and she just has time to whisper this my gift before the world goes white and Marie stops being Marie and Rogue is born into a world of searing agony and power. So much power.

Carol hadn't lied to her: every flight, Marie lands unscathed. But in their last one, skin to skin, it's only Marie who lands, and Carol who keeps flying, aware of the danger, and shooting straight up into the white-hot glare of the sun.


Rogue knows hospitals. She knows the sound of heart monitors, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum when the uninjured party standing at the bedside can't stand to look anywhere else.

She went into County General a young girl unready to face the consequences of actions she hadn't made the choice to commit, unwilling to believe that a kiss could really be responsible. She apologized through glass and didn't make it past the door until he'd been discharged.

She enters New York Presbyterian three years older and lifetimes wiser, clothed from head to toe in black. She has made a vow that she will never again set foot outside without this uniform again.

She recites the names to Carol, each and every one: they are a line, not a path, but a living and breathing lineage that her skin remembers.

Carol's brow feels cool even through the material of the gloves; she doesn't stir when Marie's lips press down on the velvet barrier.

She flies, that night, for the first time, crazy with Carol, crazy with grief, but the wind is on her skin, and then she knows, as sure as she knows the hum of power: they're all with her.

There are no strangers in the map of her skin, anymore, no doubts about who she is.

She is Rogue, and is everyone she has ever touched. She isn't alone.

They'll always be with her.

12/03/2021 11:17 PM 

Little Schizophrenic Girl

Little Schizophrenic Girl, heavily medicated so she can't feel the pain.
She will never leave that hospital, never again feel snow or rain.

Tears rolled down my cheek the very first time I looked into her blue eyes.
3 a.m. she's in the hallway hugging an old woman while she cries.

The mental hospital is a holding cell for God's rejects,
A place you will feel nothing but sadness and neglect.

Only 17 years old, a beautiful young girl so sweet and innocent,
Doing life for a crime she didn't commit, there was no sin committed to repent.

Just the way things are, that was 11 years ago and it still hurts me.
A wonderful heart with a tortured mind, something I wish I didn't see.

It still weighs heavy on my heart, it still makes me cry.
I can't forget the sadness I felt the first time I looked into her glassy eyes.

I'm not sure she knew where she was, never be someone's girlfriend or wife,
'Cause she'll never leave that wing of the mental hospital; she'll never experience life.

How can the hospital workers have the strength to do that job?
They're trying to help the cursed, while other lazy people steal and rob.

She barely ate, the medication took away her sense of taste.
I don't think she even knew where she was; counseling sessions were a waste.

A living, breathing, caring heart, a mind with no thoughts like she's brain dead.
The emotions were unbearable, never comprehended a word she said.

Don't worry, you'll feel bliss in heaven, because you were tortured in this world.
I'm still praying for you, Little Schizophrenic Girl.


12/03/2021 11:14 PM 

Roleplay Starter

A giant plume of billowed into the skies of an abandoned, devastated New York city. Rusty, dilapidated buildings surrounded the two contestants. Trash and debris lined the roads of a desolate city street.

Two women of valor stood on either side of the street. Two titans that transcended universes prepared for a battle.

Carol’s palms lit up as she ascended into the air.

“Look honey, there’s a thousand ways I can kill you right now. How ‘bout you just come with me quietly, and maybe-”

Diana dived at her adversary, slamming her shield into the woman’s face before she could finish her sentence.

The Captain spun through the air and crashed into the ground floor of a building a few yards off. She struggled to a sitting position, attempting to shake off the pain now searing through her skull. But Carol would be allowed no time to rest. As she recovered, a golden lasso swirled around her feet, catching her by the ankle before throwing her into a nearby car.

She coughed and heaved as she slammed heavily into the vehicle’s chassis, before falling on all fours.

Wonder Woman took a few steps towards her downed adversary. “That’s for calling me honey!”

Captain Marvel shot her head towards the Amazon princess. Her gaze was filled with anger. She raised a fist, gathering a ball of energy into her hands, before sending a yellow beam towards her enemy. The photon blast hit Wonder Woman square on the ribs, staggering her for a moment.

Enough time for Carol to jump to her feet and fly towards her distracted opponent, sending her hurtling with a massive blow to the face. The Amazon crashed and skidded on the tarmac, raising ridges the size of her body as she slid down the road. 

12/02/2021 05:43 PM 

Why Do You Push

I lay there looking at the ceiling hoping something would stop you
Willing the words to come out from the back of my throat
It seemed so easy to say no before
So simple
But that day in your room it changed everything
I laid there as you kept going and you kept asking if it was okay
I guess you took the look of horror and fear on my face as a yes
You kept going further further
Unbuttoning my pants
Sliding down my underwear
Removing the condom from you drawer
And finally right before you started to pound out my soul
I got out that one little word, no
But that wasn't enough you played it off like it hadn't been said
I lay there as you took what little self-esteem I had left
Looking at the clock, begging the minuets to go faster
So it would all be done and I could home
Finally after 30 minutes you were finally finished
A grin flashed across your face and you told me how great you felt
You pulled out, I lay dazed and confused, unsure what was next
You told me "Next time you owe me,
This was all about you."


12/02/2021 05:32 PM 

My Virginity

I think back to when it happened,
think back to that awful day.
The day when it all happened,
the day he took "it" away.

Fighting. Yelling. Crying.
It didn't matter how loud I screamed.
Nobody came to help me.
Nobody came to set me free.

I still dream of running,
of trying to break away.
Of feeling him catch me,
every damn day.

I see him in the shadows,
even while I'm at home.
I close my eyes and pray he's gone,
only then I can't help but feel him.

To this day I feel him,
his tight grip on my wrists,
The pressure of his body
as I tried to resist.

He continued to thrust away,
as I fought and yelled and cried.
It didn't matter how loud I screamed,
Nobody came to help me.
Nobody came to set me free.


12/02/2021 04:29 PM 

Here The Flower, Here The Lamb

God did not mean to give me a mouth.
He meant to give me hands, eyes, a heart
but not a mouth.
When I speak something in me bleeds. When I-
I speak, and my eyes fog over like glass.  
I can't see you standing there, I'm so sorry. Show me again, where did you put the bread?  

I feel like a thing that needs to be forgiven.

I feel so fragile sometimes.
I am trying to understand the
weight of the evil inflicted upon me.
It is heavy. I never understood that 'till now.

I wasn't meant to carry this weight, but I do.
I wasn't meant to speak the way I
so often will, but I do.

What can I say anymore?
I can't write without bleeding. I can't speak without knowing it is a wound. How can I communicate without tearing something open? I'm afraid of shutting up and looking for my language. If I decide to leave behind every word that hurts me, would I have any words left? Will it **** the little bit of connection with people I have left?

I hope you forgive me for the little sadness I'll inspire in you.
I am afraid, but don't pity me. I am blossoming and becoming something else.
This, apotheosis, this becoming closer and closer to my own light.
It is a process that requires allowing death.
What must die must die. Allow grief.

I'll leave you with this:
If you slept next to me, it would be
much like sleeping with a letter under your pillow.
Every night, every night...

*"Here I write to you a list of cruelties I am capable of.
May you never forget:
I have made the flower so that it may blossom, and I have made the lamb so that it may eat it.
Blessed be the one willing to become.
Here, the flower. Here, the lamb."

- God

12/01/2021 11:06 PM 

Black Bird

Painting is for pictures
too hard to understand
so let me paint you a picture
of a girl
who has a little too much to understand..

her heart was a two ton brick in her fist
that kept her pinned
to the exact spot on the ground
he wanted her to be in
when she's 12
and those 27 minutes felt like eternity,
clinging to her sanity

like the last molecule of burned up air in a gas chamber
she slept on cindered feathers
sucking on the bones of her rotting body
holding back panicked breaths
like other kids hold stuffed animals
sinister smiling eyes
venom spit
splashed across her limbs

"You're so pretty.."
you're so pretty.
seeds of fear planted
in a daughter,
whose father,
didn't know,
she couldn't go any farther

the limbs of her body bare branched
creaking away from his whispered breaths
leaves burned up with the heat of guilt
hidden in the smoke are her pleading eyes
her roots ripped up and flung away
with the drop of his pants
gritting teeth sewn shut
with the bone needles of a broken bird
brittle body vibrating
against the pine tree that
looked "so pretty,"
two hours ago

two bodies
two lungs
pressed against the cage
that kept her soul contained
red and blue flashes
translate to blackness
and 6 years later
her sheets are still soaked
trembling with the sound of her own frozen voice

melting into puddles she tried to pick up
with dirty hands
and a dirty heart
dripping into the exact consistency
of the mud he left her in
fingernails full of his fingerprints
and the dew on the grass
came from her eyes
and the sheen off her body
clothing buried
and burned
smoking up to follow the bird
that unwillingly flew away

blacked painting hung up
on the pale bone frame
those 18 years and no one taught him a shred of decency
you'd think it should be inked into his humanity
but no.
she sings into the ashes
calling it back
lungs raw
throat black

she can't see his face
she can't know his name
she can't say that
she carved herself up like an animal
creating a scarred picture
everyone's seen before
but few have known
can't say that she breathes a storm
then pounds her body
until her tears turn red
and everything goes numb again
and she can finally believe for a second
your hands aren't his hands

If I knew her what could I say?
that there's something beautiful about skinned knees
and the fault lines in her eyes
and the way she scrubs her blood from the floor
and the fact that I can't stay quiet anymore
the flames my guilt fans
grow brighter when I think
that because I didn't speak
he could have gone on to ruin
another perfect thing
a perfect thing who's picture
looks a whole lot like mine.


12/01/2021 11:05 PM 

Her Smile (Pantoum)

Her smile was visible to all,
Showing a dark secret
From an inescapable memory
Because of the lie she kept telling herself.

Showing a dark secret,
The light was dimming
Because of the lie she kept telling herself.
She tried to push the pain aside.

The light was dimming
From an inescapable memory
She tried to push the pain aside.
Her smile was visible to all.



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