This is a personal documentation through poetry.
I am learning to look inward now, give myself love when I least want to. I do not live to love others, I live to love myself. I will find and create what is enough for me, and you will learn to let it...
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Flipping through the pages I've written on pristine white paper, I spare my skin from any paper cuts the book wants to leave. I gave this story a brand new set of lungs at page one. And now, it is all but blackened from vile truth that is inside of me. I stumbled out of last summer with tears in my eyes, and I am entering a new one this month. No month has been kind to me, No chapter, No word. But anyone with a pair of eyes can see my journey. My book is bright and ready, and I hand it to you on a silver platter. But you say you're not hungry for falling in and out of love, And growing up and away from family, And coping with men and drinking, And decomposing in a girl's dark bedroom. You're never hungry for my story, you don't have to lie to me. You're only hungry when its got your name slathered all over it. I'll take my book to someone else who wants to read my pages, Someone hungry for art— And not someone like you.
