I feel... Heavy. There's this big weight on my chest. When I look out the window in the second floor. I think of jumping. It's a wonder. It's fascinating. I like those thoughts. Other people don't. They don't like it very much. Even if I ever say it... They get mad. That's all people are... angry. I'm angry for not feeling her pain. I'm angry at lies. But I'm mostly afraid. I'm afraid. I'm not strong, grave,or tough. I'm frail. My heart is frail. It's been broke before. But now it's fixed. With superglue. But one movement would shatter it instantly. I'm very weak. You know what I'm feeling? Do I have to say it? Should I say it? I wanna say it. I expect everyone to be angry.
Suicidal.
That's what I feel. And I like it.
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Shorts, Poems, and Imagines
Poetry"It's exhausting to fight a war inside your head every single day." -Micki Ann
