I'm not sure, she says, voice whispering softly. I'm not sure if the decisions, choices or conclusions I come up with are the right answers or the wrong ones. I'm not sure if the promises I make will be kept or shattered into tiny shards of glass. And I don't know if I'm sane, completely delusional or maybe just in the ordinary.
I don't know if I'm seeing the real you or if I'm showing you the person behind multiple masks.
I'm not sure of a lot of things, but there are risks - she calls out firmly, - risks I'm willing to take, if you are, too.
YOU ARE READING
berceuse
Poetry❝ the lullabies in me are coming from your symphony. ❞ [image on the cover belongs to the artist]
