Dear Diary,
Unless we're in my bed
I'm never in your head
I dream of you instead
Always thinking ahead
Eyes brown, skin made of sand
Drunk kisses while he's holding my hand
Small phone blasting your favorite band
And yet somehow I can't stand.
To never be called pretty
Or even told you missed me
I never felt that way
I'm sorry I had to say.
YOU ARE READING
Letters From The Unhealed - POETRY
PoetryLetters to the ones I love, the ones I used to love, and the ones I haven't loved yet. From an unhealed soul. Letters from the Unhealed explores my personal young adult journey through poetry. Ever since the day I turned 18 the world seemed to hav...
