I was in Pain.
Scars covering the surface of the others laying against my heart, yet it never broke, only mending and stitching for new layers to heal, then to tear again.
Small drops of liquid, rolling down my face only to kiss my lips and stain the shirt, I no longer felt comfortable in; not as if I had ever felt conscious in anything I had worn. Just the opposite.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
Back and forth my cheek met the callous of my skin as I punched the broken image within the mirror because I hated the reflected bitch that smirked in a grin at my misery and the never-ending war, I called life. It was a revolving door and I was the hinges; nailed into a wall and constantly turning on a course that wouldn't end.
I slid against the wooden door, silent screams of past ghost coming to haunt the present sobs that lurched off my tongue. I held my mouth tightly as if my lips were glued shut, in fear of being heard at such twilight; eyes scrunched close, I looked heavenward and held shaking fist along my heart.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Like a frozen lake under pressure, my heart began to ripple with cracks, my nerves fueled with angst, and eventually....
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P.O.E.T.R.Y
PoetryPo•et•ry /poh-i-tree/ noun 1. the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts. 2. literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ide...
