It is neither a sharp pain, nor a dull burn. It is pleasuring feeling for me that rarely do I get to indulge in, only in secret. Restraining myself from what I know is best and letting myself either feels like a better option than drowning while being awake. This slow growl fuels me. The feeling drives me to see how long I can last, how long will it take before I pass out and crash into absolute nothingness.
The growling sounds when there is nothing left, when I am all but empty from air and exercise and energy used to live through these days without screaming in agony from memories and there's no one to help me with this growling.
I am not the daughter of love. I am the daughter of an accidental night spent by two people not knowing about mistakes to be made. I am no the daughter, but the son. I was not the daughter we had all though I was and through this growling I have discovered.
This growling, this growling has become love. It reminds me that I am better than what everyone though I was going to be. I am strong. I am in control. But most of all,
I am hungry.
YOU ARE READING
Poetic Relapse.
PoetryA place for me to write poetry whenever it arises in my lungs, when I have no air to scream these words that haunt me into my days and night
