Trauma escapes the cracks
Pressure burst from within
The facade becomes reality
A box I crave made for me
Looming over as a watcher
As the soil becomes my bed
The insects feast on my flesh
Decaying putrid stench
To grow old with you
A fantasy, fictional, untrue
To lay in a double bed coffin
With my death I won't see it through
YOU ARE READING
I don't feel like myself
PoetrySelf-hatred, Self-loathe, Self Deprecating I'll be happy when I stop feeling
