I read my poems over and over again,
drown myself to the words I used to call you–
to the phrases I used to describe you
I burnt ashes of past flames of love
and now only a clogged up sink bath stays
sometimes I do forget the trauma
and I'm glad I have this scar,
these poetry slams I couldn't show you..
because it wouldn't reach you
so now, here in me, it stays,
so much pain it stays
like the last petal of a fucked-up flower
after asking, "forget me?
forget me not?"
but maybe I really did forget you
because I write letters everyday
and it's filled with blurred sketches
of the aj I used to remember
I used to remember calling you
what was it again?
A/N
im afraid I might still love him
because I don't
but I'm afraid I do
maybe it's my mind acting up again
YOU ARE READING
Dazed Off
PoetrySee what the young poet wrote in her old journals at only the age of twelve, and how her mental state progressively gets worse at age fifteen:) Collection of poems mostly about God, family, love, and hate to oneself. • most impressive ranking: #6 in...
