The days are getting shorter
and so is her temper.
(insert some cliche metaphor
about fuses and bombs
and how her emotions are
tethered to some invisible
explosive,
because everyone knows what
a bomb looks like,
the damage it can cause,
but who can realistically fathom,
without prior experience,
how it feels to have your brain
thrash against your skull
as you drive yourself
insane?)
There are hours and there are minutes
and seconds and years
and she can barely tell the difference because
her veins keep time with her pulse,
not the tick of some machine
that a man designed to
match his.
(insert some hopeful simile
about rising again
like the sun,
how a ball of fire saves her,
because everyone wakes up,
everyone craves heat,
but who can realistically fathom,
without prior experience,
what it means to be dictated by
a disease that no one else can
see,
a disease that gives and takes
and casts light and shadow
at whim?)
She is.
She is.
She is.
YOU ARE READING
Tears in the Truth
PoetryA young girl plays the dangerous metaphorical game of chess- will she win the raging battle between mind and soul? Or will the monster teeter her over the edge of sanity? She must tread carefully, or risk losing the game. *This is an Ellen Hopkins f...
