I still feel the shivers of the icy sheets at night
I hear the voices of them laughing while I was crying
I still remember being scolded for shrugging
I feel the scratch of the plastic chairs against my anxious fingertips
I feel the tight material around my neck
I hear the silence welcoming me
I still wince from the cold floor on my legs
I taste the blood from biting my lips
100 days away...
And I'm still in the same city
The same mental state
The same self-absorbed personality
YOU ARE READING
Poetry... I guess
PoetryI took creative writing in Junior Year, and I plan on minoring it in college. Some of these might make sense, but others might not.
