It's nights like these when I stay up not counting sheep, but instead bad memories.
Huddled in the dark with an ocean of blankets wondering to myself if this is it. . .
If this is what life is meant to be.
I would probably cry if I wasn't already numb. . .
Checking for messages that will never appear.
I will fall asleep for once. . . Even if it hurts.
It hurts so fucking much.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Withered Writing
PoetryI write because my soul lies beneath the ink. And with every slip of my pen, sparks return to exhale passion and reason into my writing. (This book has become my therapy, and it will either lead me to get better. Or lead me to death.)
