inhalation of normalities stroking our fair skin
for we are broken
barriers turned to dust
we do not choose this to fit in
our bodies carrying heavy burdens
my shoulders dropping to the grass
brushing over weeds
death by glass splintered in our beings
bleeding out are we
but only internally
therefore my interior is no longer beautiful
as so many claimed it to be
now my insides match my outsides
and I am in a wonderful place to be
YOU ARE READING
breathe {poetry}--
Poetrythis is not poetry it is emotion in its purest form; words
