sometimes i feel
like a girl made of match sticks
like i'll burst in to flames
that i'll burn down the house
at the slightest pressure
and then i remember
that i am already burning
that this stupid house was already ash
that i have already crumpled under the weight
that i'm breathing in smoke not air
and i stop holding it in
i stop trying to put out the fire
because there's no point
in protecting what's already dead
in salvaging debris
in trying to stop matchsticks
from catching on fire
YOU ARE READING
wilting roses
PoetryAnother collection of (bad) poems. *tw: mentions of sexual assault, drug use, drinking, suicidal ideation and self harm* -a collection of poems that document my experiences with my mental health throughout high school. a warning: i had a few undiagn...
