Clothing begins to look unshapeless and baggy
It's no longer tight like it use to be
Dark, tired eyes from the sleepless nights we stayed up until dawn
Stress is a monster in disguise
eating you away bit by bit
Until you're nothing but a pile of bones underneath that favourite childhood t-shirt you always wore for comfort
YOU ARE READING
Strikes.
PoetryPoetry of abuse, pain and suffering. With every strike there is light at the end of the tunnel.
