🚧 vent about sh 🚧
As a year turns to a day the somberness of my stare Peirce's my own eyes as I stare at my reflection.
I'm loosing my sobriety.
My plasters hide inside the box.
Tucked away.
2 left from what used to be 4
It graced my skin with a sting that bit the tears.
Covering it up was the only option.
A year turned a day.
Sobriety gone.
No longer was I sober. free of my emotions? NO. I was bound to them bound to their torture.
Their reminder.
Their grace set me free but left me with a sting as I fight for my beliefs.
They want to take my rights. My freedom.
The stinging of their visit upon my thighs don't stay long.
The only reason I stay is because I'm what's keeping the chain reaction from continuing to slip...
By not starting it.
YOU ARE READING
Dust in the vents
Poetryyou'll find out more about well whatevers in her when you read but tws will be provided if needed and also I hope you enjoy the poems that roam in the vents
