This truth turns into a sad truth when I perceive it because only these things can hurt me.
That all truths that find their way to the palm of my hand turn into sad truths.
A soft scrape that leaves you asking 'And that is it?' while it rests.
The truth is my voice grates in the canals of my family's ears.
and I want to say I was never made to speak but I will say, I never meant to speak.
After I finally got it.
I wish for so many things but none about my family listening to me.
I want to lay just as it rests leaving me unsatisfied. (how are they? unsatisfied? grieving?)
and that is it.
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PoetryTW' trauma dumping read this in an accent, thank you. Yes, all thoughts are authentic but never original. This kills me, so I search. It would kill me less if all authenticity didn't claim healing is a forgetting through the passage of time. That t...
