7am.
You rub tired eyes roughly.
You thought that the night's slumber would hide the fact
that you have been crying yourself to sleep
every single night.
But it didn't.
You want so bad to stay in bed,
to hide in your room,
and conceal your disheveled hair
or your puffy red eyes
or your tear stained cheeks.
But you can't.
You have to get up and get ready.
You have to pile on the concealer.
You have to plaster a smile across your face.
You have to overcompensate for the fact
that all the overwhelming emotions from 11 pm last night
still haunt you at 7 am in the morning.
YOU ARE READING
Gone was time • poetry collection
PoetryYou don't see it. You don't hear it. You don't feel it. Quietly, it creeps away like a sinful thief, stealing all your moments, your months, your memories and gone was time. More often than not, many of us don't fully comprehend the weight a moment...
