She hangs in the balance,
like those pills on her lips.
Creating her own dance,
but not with her hips.It's a motion more like sobs,
a lot like a wreck.
She'll move with the mobs,
with a lynch around her neck.Her mouth open wide,
ready for poison.
She's got everything to hide,
her words are the treason.Her footing is loose,
and she might fall in.
She'll choose a truce,
Because she knows she'll never win.
YOU ARE READING
Butterflies come flying out [poetry]
PoetryThe words of a teenage girl with too many emotions and no other form of catharsis.