Why are the marks your hands left,
So warm?
They hurt.
They sting.
Yet they feel so warm.
Why are your handprints,
Setting fire to my skin?
Why do you keep leaving them there,
Not wanting to treat the burn?
It's as if you hate me,
You want my very existence to terminate.
You wish you were the only girl,
And you wish I had never been born.
Even though I'm the eldest girl,
The one you will never be,
You hate the fact I was conceived,
Before you,
That I even existed,
Before you got even the slightest chance.
I'll be the only one you'll have left,
One day,
And you'll hate yourself,
For how many times you dared to lay a hand on me.
YOU ARE READING
Just A Mess
PoetryI'm not too sure as to what this is, but I often get bored and lost in my thoughts, so why not write them out? As I wrote I created poetic sentences, lines and phrases. So, I hope they can be enjoyed despite their mainly heavy topics. This book cove...
