the thing about about talking about this
is that i have admit it
i have to give the voice scratching behind my eye sockets the chance to scream and screech and cry
i have crack open my ribs
and let all the ugly, all the sludge, all the blood spill out on this nice white carpet
i don't want to ruin this nice white carpet
i have to hold onto syllables, pick my words as delicately as dead skin..dead bruised skin
i don't want to wait for that look in your eyes
i don't want to see that look in your eyes
and then immediately tuck myself back into myself
as to apologies
for ruining this nice white carpet
i don't want to ruin this nice white carpet
-y.s
YOU ARE READING
plastic flowers
Poetrylife is never perfect. it's messy and even the most perfect people put on a face. just like plastic flowers, from afar i can look put together but up close i'm everything but. *a collection of poems*
