And everyone knows you can’t disprove a rumor.

And it feels strange, almost sad, to walk through ther empty halls. Each step I take sounds so lonely.

What the hell happened to Pluto?!

That's what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff where you're not sure what the poet's talking about. You may have an idea, but you can't be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word, specifically chosen, could have a million different meanings.

Because no, I didn’t push her away. I didn’t add to her pain or do anything to hurt her. Instead, I left her alone in that room. The only person who might’ve been able to reach out and save her from herself. To pull her back from wherever she was heading. I did what she asked and I left. When I should have stayed.

I’m going to be mentally ill in fifteen years, and that’s why my husband doesn’t want to be around me.

Those are some strong currents you're swimming against.