I'm gated inside a sack of skin that I'm obligated to call my own. I'm locked in with thoughts that have destroyed what was once my own common sense of logic and direction. I'm trapped as I watch these thoughts race with no halt sign in hand or a red light to turn to for a break. My brain is a track of thoughts with no real direction nor a finish line that allows the racing to end.
Mirrors show my skin covered in brutal black bruises from my own degradation. I no longer know the beauty of self-worth though I wish to. This body's eyes decide what they see, and what they see is not a beautiful pale, freckled strong woman with gorgeous curves but a pathetic mindless zombie with a sack of used skin plopped over it and a face that is not dared to be dreamed of. An insecure little girl wanders through her mind on a path scribbling with madness.
YOU ARE READING
Moans in the Wind
PoetryWhen we are hurt, we moan in pain. When we are happy, we moan in soft sighs. When we are in love, we moan in affection and pleasure. All of your moans are meant to be heard.
