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Shrivelled up inside Feeling worthless You ever think a six-year-old should feel like that Just because they couldn't add 2 plus 4 in math? Over the years your words pummel my tiny mind Invisible claws digging deep Leaving gaping wounds of insecurity Your face says it all That crease in your forehead foretells of the coming ‘licks' My eyes dart in panic to the dining room chair Where your favourite leather strap hangs carelessly Just waiting to attack mercilessly and make my skin black Why can't you see that I'm giving it my all? The unending comparisons with my sister's aptitude Makes me want to hold my head and bawl Her perfect scores drive me up the wall Oh the wall, where I distractedly watch a lizard crawl ‘Whap!' My scream, a sob, a bawl Let that leather strap sing Cause that's the thing My copybook page dotted with the watery evidence of my failure My leaky eyes and snotty nose run like a free flowing river Why don't you know I'm trying my best? Oh the stress! Is you, is me, is the leather strap under duress Grannie in the corner watching with eyes gleaming Liking the way that the strap falling Mummy working..oh I miss she No one knows my pain Except God, but then again.. He doh answer No matter dey say He hear My cries, my six-year-old pain Have me thinking to run away On days like this where bliss is a definite miss They say is for my own good But my lost voice breaks my heart Somedays I plot my master escape in my head To sneak from my bed and just fled Lying in the dark, no meal because I didn't answer correctly Math ain't my forte Don't they see I just want to play? The neighbourhood kids screaming for fun and games Me always at my desk Studies more important..the adults say But wait eh Someday when I am grown I will have my say Because no one better lay a finger on my chile This mummy will be a tiger Who wants things better And the power I hold Will definitely be told And the mountains my kid will climb Would be so better than mine For it all starts and stops with me No generational curses and lame-o excuses But the truth that to be better, You must conquer that pain Unlocking and understanding are the key My mummy and daddy didn't know better But these books I reading and these TV programs I seeing Got my brain cells electrifying Change is in me I hold the power! Its up to me..let ME determine my FUTURE!

It wasn't just a dark rose, it was the life of innocence, as each petal she clenched, fell to the ground. It was a life of hope, Hope that one day, her love might be enough. It wasn't just a dark rose, it was a broken heart, aching from the countless lies told, an aching heart, wondering how he could be so cold. It wasn't just a dark rose, as the bloody knife clattered on the ground, and the lovely red petals were engulfed in her blood. It really wasn't just a dark rose. It was her pain, it was her guilt, It was her suffering, But whilst she lived, a dark rose a day, and when she cried, she plucked a petal away. It wasn't just the dark roses, neither was it the pain when the last thing on her mind was his face, when the door closes. But all it was, was the love, of a no longer beating heart. A heart filled with innocence, and love for another, who without a doubt, is right now, With another. -BY RUTHIE DE GREAT ON THIS DAY-11/03/2021 NOTE FROM THE POET- I hope you Guys like the poem! tell me what you think about it in the comments!

Delivering chiropractic care to the Oakleigh area since 1987.Our clinic is very homey and comfortable, decorated in calming earthy colors. Here at North Road Chiropractic we treat our patients like family. “I ask patients to call me by my first name,” states chiropractor in Oakleigh, Dr Sam (Chiropractor).Our Philosophy - At our Oakleigh chiropractic clinic we base our health care on the principle that a properly functioning spine means a properly functioning nervous system. A properly functioning nervous system means a properly functioning body, which in turn means that our patients can perform better and fulfill their potential to the maximum. Health through Chiropractic… Naturally!- Our purpose is restoring, enhancing and maintaining health and well being through Chiropractic. Naturally. Chiropractic is a natural approach to health that is clinically based on the relationship between the nervous system and the proper function of the body tissues and organs. At North Road Chiropractic we aim to provide the absolute best in chiropractic health care.We do this using a completely natural ‘hands only' approach – there is no drugs or surgery. We use only the lowest force necessary to correct spinal abnormalities and we are proud to say that our treatments definitely do not hurt. In order to facilitate maximum healing and to enable our patients to reach their optimum health we use adjuncts such as exercise, postural advice and ergonomic advice.Relief Care- When many people seek care in our office and have one goal: relief. So that's where we start! During this initial stage of intensive care, we have several obligations:- Uncover the underlying cause of the health problem Suggest a care plan to produce the fastest results possible Offer ways patients can participate in their recovery. https://www.backtohealth.com.au/chiropractor-bentleigh-east

Eight days after my twentieth birthday, I'm rushed to the Emergency Room. Again. Twelve times in the last year and a half. The pain is so bad I can't pick myself up from the tiled bathroom floor, sweating, nauseous and sick to my stomach. “We're sorry, Ms. Ludemann, but we can't give you any painkillers -- have you tried ibuprofen?” I see a news segment about a man who took so much Advil that he burned a hole in his liver, and wonder if burning a hole in mine would convince people that I'm sick. I cycle between passing out and dissociating on my partner's worn couch. The EMTs who arrive in the ambulance joke that I can't be that bad. The (white, old, male) doctor asks me if I have any “mental health issues,” then tells me I am a woman and I simply have anxiety, manifesting itself in physical forms. IVs, EEGs, EKGs, MRIs, CAT scans. I am drowning in alphabet soup, but no one has an explanation for the ache in my bones, the snapping sounds my hips make, the popping of my subluxed shoulders slipping back into place. In November, I drive to a nearby medical supply store. The last few hundred dollars in my bank account are forked over for the only semblance of freedom I have had in weeks. The seat is too wide for my hips. The plastic armrests leave black and blue bruises on my arms for a month. My friends pick up a roll of cat printed duct tape at CVS, and we spend the evening carefully aligning strips on the side rails. It becomes my “pussywagon,” a humorous extension of myself in an attempt to conceal the bruises all over, the muscle spasms that rack my body, the tears shed as I struggle to literally crawl up the stairs to my inaccessible, second-floor dorm room. I soon learn that my college is built on hills, and try to ignore the pain in my shoulders as I push myself across campus and back. In December, I set up a GoFundMe, staring blankly at my computer screen at the hundreds of other fundraising campaigns set up by people like me who need money to cover the cost of surviving, which is its own pre-existing condition. We raise $400, and I have a break down in bed thinking about ways to make up the extra two thousand we need. My grandmother, whose own joint issues lead to a botched knee surgery and a large legal settlement, loans me the money, if only because we call each other and commiserate over the weather and the pain in our elderly bones. The chair I choose is bubblegum pink, bright enough that I can be spotted crossing the dark streets on campus at night. I name her Veronica and cover the sides in stickers and figure out hacks for attaching my backpack to her pushbar. They move me to a new dorm, where I don't have to humiliate myself crawling to my room. I spend January through April zooming across campus, waiting impatiently for the crowded elevator in academic buildings, calling facility services multiple times imploring them to shovel the wheelchair ramp and make pathways bigger than a foot wide. My partner and I trudge through the mud and muck of Pride in May, dodging puddles and shivering under sweaty plastic ponchos. When we roll over to compliment a group of fellow queer wheelchair users on their sign, which calls out the inaccessibility of having the parade terminate at the fairgrounds, they smile and ask, “Do you have Ehlers-Danlos too?” For the next hour, I learn that other people have the same pain I do, that the “party trick” I've had for years is really my elbow dislocating, that the dizzy spells and night sweats I get have a name, that my symptoms are real. I bury my head in my laptop for a weekend straight, digging up any and all information I can find. My parents tell me that researching too much is making me a hypochondriac. Two days before my senior year, my mother, Veronica and I fold ourselves into my small car and make the drive from our house to the only doctor within a fifty mile radius knowledgeable about Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. Two white-coat wearing, tight-lipped doctors poke and prod at my body for an hour, making me bend this way and that way, asking my mother questions about my birth, looking at my teeth, taking samples of my blood. They tell me that I don't score high enough on the Beighton scale to have Ehlers-Danlos, but I might have Hypermobility Spectrum Disorder, the big umbrella under which EDS falls. I nod and smile blankly, knowing that the entire ride home I will have to listen to my mother prattle on about how she was right, that I was convincing myself I was sicker than I am. Two days before the start of my senior year, I sit in my living room, surrounded by suitcases and boxes. My sister fills her backpack with binders and books; I fill mine with meds, my foldable cane, KT tape to hold my joints in place, a heating pad, bottles of melatonin to force my body to sleep on nights when the pain keeps me awake. On move in-day, I sit in my dorm room and take a deep breath, processing my new suroundings. Then the typing begins.

Growing up, books were everything to me. I loved how Enid Blyton told her magical fables, like she only drank coffee mixed with fairy dust; how Roald Dahl created brilliant new worlds and awe-inspiring characters (Matilda, anybody?), weaving words like baskets through his fingers; and don't even get me started on how J.K. Rowling had me dying to be a wizard, a hippogriff, a goblin, anything—as long as I was magic enough to sneak through platform nine and three-quarters. At age seven I read eight hundred books. Mother was so pleased she got me a Gameboy, then she took it back two weeks later because it was cutting into my reading time. The irony. Notwithstanding, books continued to be my gateway to reality: teaching me to be kind, humble and brave; exposing me to colourful cultures from diverse places I'd never been; cultivating me in the sacred arts of algebra and science. Books are the reason I had a near-perfect score in my Common Entrance examinations, earning admission into one of Nigeria's finest secondary schools: Mayflower School, Ikenne. Mayflower had meant enrolling in boarding school at the tender age of eight. Mother cried on my departure date. I cried hard, too. It was a harvest of tears. I would go on to hug her tiny passport photograph to my chest for many dark, lonely nights afterward. Books earned me a reputation as class grammarian right from first year. My classmates couldn't fathom that I could spell over thirty thousand words, nor that I could narrate the history of the Mali and Songhai empires from 1000AD till they declined. I bested everyone at Scrabble and Wordbuilder, and it was during one of such showdowns that I met Bolu. Bolu was bright, but his size was intimidating. He was huger than me by so much that he could've had me for lunch and his stomach wouldn't bulge. Still, he respected my proficiency with words, and I respected that he respected me, so we became best friends. We ate at the same table in the dining hall, did our laundry and assignments together, and walked side-by-side to class. One night around 2AM, while we battled over a game of Scrabble, Bolu reached over unexpectedly and kissed me full on the lips. My heart fluttered and my brain scattered. It was a strange, twisted, terrifyingly new feeling. I didn't hate it, but I found that I couldn't encourage it either. I told Bolu this and instantly everything darkened. His attitude transmogrified, and he soon became my first bully. He would kick over buckets of bathwater I painstakingly fetched, pour sand in my cereal, and one time he slashed my forehead with a rusted hanger. Fortunately, when second year rolled in, our hostels got reshuffled and Bolu was allocated elsewhere. As transition periods often do, second year crossed my path with Nonso and Tola: Bespectacled Nonso, whose sharp nose could open a keyhole, and Tola, the artist, who could sketch a speck of dust till it was Mona Lisa-level gorgeous. We got along pretty well at the start. Nonso desired writing essays as well as I did and Tola thought me ‘dope'. We bonded tight as concrete, so much so that I allowed them unrestricted access to my stuff. Having received them so warmly, I believed they would welcome me in like manner. Little did I perceive how quickly things could become sour pudding. Nonso was mean and selfish. He charged me forty percent interest whenever he loaned me money, made a habit of constantly taunting Tola over his poor grades, and it took a bucket list of arguments to convince him to part with a sachet of milk. Worst of all, Nonso was a liar. One afternoon, after I returned his Mathematics textbook which I had borrowed for an assignment, he accused me of taking the cash he supposedly kept within it. It made no sense but he sounded so convincing that, before I knew it, he had turned the entire dormitory of eighty boys against me; even Tola. I was as embarrassed as I was infuriated. Then, to my eternal befuddlement, Nonso slapped my face. Consumed by fury, I rammed his head into a locker. And so the camel's back broke. He reported me to the authorities, I got punished severely, and we never spoke to each other again. It took several years of bearing the burden of anger in my heart before I realized that I had it all wrong. I had always been nice to others, true, but it dawned on me that I'd done every good deed with the expectation of reaping kindness later. I realized that—though I stood (arguably) at the other end of the spectrum of selfishness—I was no better than Nonso, who was only truly helpful when something was in it for him. As a species, we could never be perfect. To err is human after all. However, I now understand that the more we learn to do good just for the sake of it, no strings attached, the less the heartache we will feel when the ones we hold dearest hurt us as they inevitably will. Besides, Karma never stops watching, and no matter how deftly we mask our underlying greed, she always will see through the ruse.

Skupoy , or Skudny lives in a foggy swamp , he breathes wind and eat crumbs and spend a lot of his time with insects . Skupoy often prefer to be away from human beings , but he is in love with village people . He is not a human being but rather belong to nature's creatures , it has been said in ancient mythology that he was a living creature in swamp water , while in other novels it was pointed as swamp itself . Best not to provoke him, not one to be taken lightly , he just may decide to focus squarely on others and people forbid to imply he is a creature , who always lurking right above the surfaces . Over the time people noticed the spread of unpleasant odors , reproduction of parasites where it spread and began to eat crops , while the activity of fungi increased to cover heavily houses , roofs , portals , and houses of reverence . The swamp acquired a nature other than its own nature , the dark water turned into brown viscous clay . Which finally led people to look out in the swamp , the surprising part of this myth when they found the reason , it were only worms . Carried with clouds and thrown by rains into the swamp , it didnt take time to adapt with grumpy swamp as a warm shelter . The swamp was a source of inspiration and many other benefits for those people . They quickly decided to pull uot the worms , they gently remove them . Near the swamp they dug the land to build another shelter for these worms with provision of fruits and vegetables in order to avoid worm's revenge . _____________ This is my first fiction story which i wrote months ago but I did not find time to publish it, I hope I see your impressions on my writings, whether spelling or grammar ...,

They called her strong, and yet, though she persevered through all the wrongs that had been dealt to her she did not feel strong. She felt as if all there was to hope for had been ripped from her by those who were supposed to nourish and care for her. She didn't feel strong, she felt weak, disconnected, disheartened, hopeless. They told her she was strong but they pitied her, and still people who were supposed to care broke her down and tore her to pieces until it felt as though there was nothing left. But she wanted better for herself, so she fought through the anxiety attacks that took her breath straight from her lungs through the night, the spells of lonely, and the overwhelming sadness and slowly, she began to see her strength. As she worked on herself she began to help others with it too. She found people who built her up and made her realize all the effort she put in to herself was worth it, and she cherished them, and she hoped with all her heart that the world wouldn't rip them away from her as it had before. A few years later, she began to discover things about herself as she fought the demons in her head, things that made her proud, things that made her strong, and she found the woman she'd been hoping to find her whole life, her mother. She went to her, and as she grew, and fought, and worked toward making herself better, she met somebody, somebody who helped her put all her pieces back together. And she felt whole, and she felt strong, and she was hopelessly in love with him. But, the world did that thing again, it worked against her and tried to take away the somebody who had helped put her back together. She gave in at first, her fragile heart breaking into a thousand painful shards of glass, because what could she do? And then, with tears in her eyes, she stood up, and she screamed, and she yelled, and she fought for him, and the baby she'd just found out was growing inside her, and finally, for what felt like the first time, she won, and the world backed off, and let her have her peace. A year later, she still struggles to put all her broken pieces together, but she gets closer to it every day. Her daughter, who was born healthy and happy, is the light of her life, and she and her husband work hard everyday to achieve their dreams and make it. It may be tough, but she is strong.

We've all experienced some sort of heartbreak. Some loss. Whether we felt it from the guilt of leaving our partners, or the pain we felt when our partners had left us. Truly caring for someone only to part with them later is more emotionally harmful than anything else on this earth. Mere days ago, I was informed by my dearest friend that my partner wanted to leave me. "You're single now," he told me. "He's upset with you, and he's tired of what you're doing." I felt my world come crumbling down from those few words. I would have understood if I had betrayed him in some way, such as cheating or lying about something, but all I had done was keep to myself in troubling times. I refused to rely on him emotionally in the case of him one day disappearing from my life, and thus did not burden him with my problems. Then I was told this. I can only faintly remember the last time I felt this way. "Okay," I simply replied with a deadpan expression. Yet deep down inside I was crying--screaming--and wondering why he'd leave for such a reason. Even before I began to write this I laid in bed and nearly bursted into tears at the mere thought of being without him. It hurts. After all we have been through together. It truly pains me inside. Now I pass by him in the halls, not daring to take a single glance in the fear that I may just break down once again, and ignore his very existence. On my way home I start feeling that emotion bubble inside of me, and it takes everything in my being not to explode right there in the middle of the street. If I must be honest, I feel very much at fault for this. If I just wasn't so stubborn and was more open. If I had just gave a more clear explanation to him on why I choose to spend time with only a select few people rather than him. If I had just told him upfront "I feel depressed, and I need some time away from us so I can collect myself again" or "This is just something that happens occasionally. I promise it'll go away soon. Just please be patient with me, I beg of you" or anything along those lines. Then maybe none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have the need to cry myself to sleep late at night. I wouldn't have the need to nearly collapse into tears each time I see his face. I wouldn't have the need to fake my hatred towards him, and mask my pain with fury. I wouldn't have the need to forcefully collect my being and throw myself onto another person just to forget him. This whole situation could have been avoided if I just said something more explicit and obvious to him. Then at times I also blame him. He understood, knowing me for about two years or more, that I prefer to stay away from most and hang out with very few when I am in these little moods. Yet he whined and chose to leave me over this. In fact, it was he in the beginning who would leave me to my own devices. It was he who would abandon me when I needed him most. It was he who would tell others "They're fine. Just leave them alone for a little while. They'll get out of this funk eventually." So why is it now, out of all times, that he is so furious for me simply understanding that it's better for me to deal with this on my own? Why is it that now, when I am the one who decides who I am with when I have these feelings, he gets upset? Who have given him these unspoken rights to control who I do and don't hang around when I am in no mood to deal with people including him? These emotions of mine conflict, and it hurts both my heart and my head to think of this. I know not of the future, but I do hope that someday all of this will be mended. I shall either join with him to figure this all out, or cut him from my life in its entirety and move on. Only time can tell what my choice will be.

We've all experienced some sort of heartbreak. Some loss. Whether we felt it from the guilt of leaving our partners, or the pain we felt when our partners had left us. Truly caring for someone only to part with them later is more emotionally harmful than anything else on this earth. Mere days ago, I was informed by my dearest friend that my partner wanted to leave me. "You're single now," he told me. "He's upset with you, and he's tired of what you're doing." I felt my world come crumbling down from those few words. I would have understood if I had betrayed him in some way, such as cheating or lying about something, but all I had done was keep to myself in troubling times. I refused to rely on him emotionally in the case of him one day disappearing from my life, and thus did not burden him with my problems. Then I was told this. I can only faintly remember the last time I felt this way. "Okay," I simply replied with a deadpan expression. Yet deep down inside I was crying--screaming--and wondering why he'd leave for such a reason. Even before I began to write this I laid in bed and nearly bursted into tears at the mere thought of being without him. It hurts. After all we have been through together. It truly pains me inside. Now I pass by him in the halls, not daring to take a single glance in the fear that I may just break down once again, and ignore his very existence. On my way home I start feeling that emotion bubble inside of me, and it takes everything in my being not to explode right there in the middle of the street. If I must be honest, I feel very much at fault for this. If I just wasn't so stubborn and was more open. If I had just gave a more clear explanation to him on why I choose to spend time with only a select few people rather than him. If I had just told him upfront "I feel depressed, and I need some time away from us so I can collect myself again" or "This is just something that happens occasionally. I promise it'll go away soon. Just please be patient with me, I beg of you" or anything along those lines. Then maybe none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have the need to cry myself to sleep late at night. I wouldn't have the need to nearly collapse into tears each time I see his face. I wouldn't have the need to fake my hatred towards him, and mask my pain with fury. I wouldn't have the need to forcefully collect my being and throw myself onto another person just to forget him. This whole situation could have been avoided if I just said something more explicit and obvious to him. Then at times I also blame him. He understood, knowing me for about two years or more, that I prefer to stay away from most and hang out with very few when I am in these little moods. Yet he whined and chose to leave me over this. In fact, it was he in the beginning who would leave me to my own devices. It was he who would abandon me when I needed him most. It was he who would tell others "They're fine. Just leave them alone for a little while. They'll get out of this funk eventually." So why is it now, out of all times, that he is so furious for me simply understanding that it's better for me to deal with this on my own? Why is it that now, when I am the one who decides who I am with when I have these feelings, he gets upset? Who have given him these unspoken rights to control who I do and don't hang around when I am in no mood to deal with people including him? These emotions of mine conflict, and it hurts both my heart and my head to think of this. I know not of the future, but I do hope that someday all of this will be mended. I shall either join with him to figure this all out, or cut him from my life in its entirety and move on. Only time can tell what my choice will be.

Pray tell, what do you think a child dreams of? Perhaps they wonder what it's like to soar through the sky? Or they dream of exploring the infinite universe? Or maybe they think about what growing up feels like? Each child has their own dreams and wonders, their own desires and destinies that they wish to pursue. So why is it that, in a world where following ones dreams is a universal goal, very few manage to get there? I'll tell you why. These dreams children often have, dreams that make them smile and excited for the next day to come as they rest their heads for the evening, are crushed by those who had their own desires smashed to bits in front of their very eyes. We dream to be whatever we desire before those wishes are blown to dust, and then we grow up only to do the same to our own children. Why does this cycle of misery continue so often? Why is it so hard to break this link, this chain, that holds many of us down? I once dreamed of many things. I wanted to be a ballet dancer, then a singer, then a firefighter, then an artist, and then soldier working to protect my country. All of those dreams were decimated by my family. I understood well enough that they had good intentions, and their reasoning was everything but illogical (we are too poor to pick ourselves up after the fall after all). However, everything has become different for me now. I fear of the future, and my desires are unclear. Do I chose what is best for my family's sake, as well as my own, or do I follow my heart's true wishes and let my dreams guide me through the rocky stream of life? Do I work simply for the pay so I can live a better life, or do I work because I enjoy it and love doing what I accomplish? My life has made it all hard to choose. I had grown up believing that I can only have one, not the other, and thus cannot formulate a plan to achieve both goals. Even in writing--for I once shared my desire with my brother only for him to tell me I could not simply because I couldn't earn enough money unless I had plenty of wealth and connections at my disposal, in which I had neither nor--I know not whether to pursue this dream or to abandon it like all the others. My love for stories, helping others in need, children, and the creatures of this planet that we hold so dearly to our hearts is what drives me to pursue these careers. Yet, the need to do better than those before me who did not go to college, who had children at a younger age than they should have, and are still too poor and can barely afford rent every month drives me to pursue careers I have no interest in whatsoever. My whole life I have been stuck in this infinite loop of choices, deciding the pros and cons of each path, and I still have not found my way. Now here I am, a junior in high school almost ready to leave for college, and I still have the same broken mentality of my younger self. The version of me who could not decide for herself, and thus let others do it for her because it made them happy. The version of me who did what she desired in secret and was forced to wear a mask around her own flesh and blood. The version of me who at a young age continued to foolishly follow her heart only to have it broken again and again, over and over, until she could take no more and grew a lust for revenge against her transgressors. The version of me who was once so innocent and so pure, and who is now nothing more than a walking sag of flesh waiting until the day she can finally rest and leave this world behind forever, relieving her of all that has saddened and angered her for decades. So, again, I ask of you: what do you think a child dreams of? Space? Love? Adventure? Well, one thing is certain. This child here dreams of being herself again. She dreams of freedom, true love, and a happy life. It matters not to her how she gets there. She cares not if she is poor or rich. She cares not if she has a 3-acre mansion in LA or lives in a one bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. The only thing she cares about is finally being happy again. That is her childhood dream.

I looked at my elder brother' life from under the ridiculous bang that mom was cutting me each 2nd day of the month throughout my sad life. He was not particularly physically strong, and his spirit often failed, but I always thought that he was the most extraordinary person, so I was lucky with him. My pride has no limit. When the girls from the class were talking about their brothers and sisters, I stood in a corner and smiled broadly, because I knew that my brother was the best. Considering how difficult it was for me to converge with my peers, I had to take the position of an observer. My parents didn't understand my brother, or frankly sometimes they pretended as understand. And only I felt his pain during his strange life. My brother was very sensitive to the world, so very often, through the sieve of children's thoughts, I could not help noticing how his gray-green eyes filled the ocean. He did not talk to anyone since the age of 16, people began to believe him, as if he had lost his speech, and it was good for him. Hikes for speech therapists left much to be desired. Day and night he was reading, noted some individually-made phrases, paragraphs and sometimes smoked cheap cigarettes from a kiosk located next to the house and wrote poetry. Oh God, what poems he wrote! It seems to me that the whole world could have long ago turned a blind eye to all its oddities, just to be able to read or hear his works. He recited his poems only to me and it was the happiest time in my life, usually filled with chocolate sweets, eating teeth; classmates, catching up on boredom and ridiculous fours in a diary, grieving parents. With him my soul ascended higher and higher. In those moments I felt myself involved in something supernaturally beautiful. With sweeping movements of his hands, he told me about his touch; what touched him, but was at the same time indifferent and finally, that his, to his great regret, could not touch. This was our secret: I was invited strictly to the apartment in a shed, I, and he, of course. I loved observing the facial expressions of my hero, who was climbing enchantingly on the curb, and a constant sense of fierce pain pierced me, so that after nights of another secret literary evening I would close in the toilet and bellow for a long time. Of course, no one knew about this: neither his brother, nor even more so our parents. They would simply have not forgiven his brother - neither that, as it turned out, he still knows how to speak, nor that he allegedly influences me badly. When I turned 12, my brother was no longer able to put up with life, he left. I can not blame him, though sometimes I confess and try, sitting on a lid closed with a toilet and blowing every 40 seconds. After drinking a lion's dose of sleeping pills for the night, my hero went to a meeting with dreams. His parents found him in the morning cold and blue, with a note at the head of the bed, the content of which provided parents with no persecution by state bodies. My brother asked me not to blame anyone for his death. I tried to understand why he did not write a single word to me, I was very upset and at the same time for a second I did not doubt his great and sincere love for me, perhaps to the only creature on the planet that did not upset him. Thinking over what happened, I did not understand how my legs led me into the barn, into our secret shelter from the outside world. I decided to look over the curb, where he hid his works and not in vain. He wrote to me the lines that are permanently carved on my soul, and which I will never share with anyone, as adults say too "too personal." I always knew that my brother was special, because only he could hear, understand and accept me, deaf-mute a closed girl without embellishment, he did not feel pity for me, for him I was just like him - absolutely normal.