it doesn't matter how many times
i scrub my skin
with thick, bristled brushes
until i bleed.
i will never be rid of you.
it doesn't matter how many times
i move
or rearrange my room.
i can't run from you.
it doesn't matter how many times
i write
in that stupid, ratty journal
my mom gave me for my birthday.
i can never escape you.
every time i turn a new corner,
you are there.
every time i open a new door,
you are on the other side.
- S.M.
"slow suffocation"
YOU ARE READING
i feel more than other people
Poetrythis poetry collection embraces mental illness, trauma, passion, anger, and family relations through vast seas of words. my hope is to inspire others by turning raw heartache into relatable moments. warning: this book contains potentially sensitive...
