xiii. I'M A ROTTING SOUL IN BETWEEN BROKEN BONES,
YET YOU CALL IT BEAUTY.
i wouldn't like me if i met me.
she talks too quiet when the world is loud,
she talks too loud when my ears hurt.
her manners fade within time,
spoiled brat gets whatever she wants.
she complains when she's with her friends,
complains when she's not.
cries herself to sleep with the thought of how lonely she is,
but she's surrounded by the ghosts of who she used to be.
i wouldn't like me if i met me.
always has to be right,
a trait she disgustingly says she gained from her mother.
says she has a bad past, keeps it all within.
doesn't show emotion, not even a simple i love you.
she feels suffocated in hugs, in cheesy romance movies,
she can't breathe when someone tells her she looks good.
her words slip from her tongue before she thinks,
exclaims how dumb she is yet passes with nineties.
her self esteem is higher than mount everest on most days,
only to hear how much she cried over her thighs the rest.
you wouldn't like me if you met me.
there's a lot to me that i still don't understand.
things that i don't think i'll ever care to know.
you read my words and suddenly think you know me.
you take what is imprinted in arial fonts,
squished in between paragraphs.
suddenly, you know me better than i know me.
you don't, you don't want to understand,
feel the rush of all this pain at once.
trust me, i've been through hell with april.
i've touched heaven with her and
i've tasted regret in the same mouth
that spit venom at her closest peers.
but i'm stuck with her until the end.
be thankful that you aren't.
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what tomorrow brings.
الشعرxvii, april. (iii). you have no voice if no one is listening. © playlist poetry h.r. : #3
