We are strangers.
Me, in my ripped and painted jeans, dark hoodies, old combats, and bright hair.
We are just stragners.
That girl I used to be,
Her, in those flowered skirts, dark flats, colorful t's, and that dull long hair.
We were never a like, that girl everyone saw,
and I.
She was overly talkative to hide her growing fears,
I accept who and what I am, though sometimes she still comes out,
like a glimmer of color on a puddle ripped by the storm.We are stangers.
That is all we will ever be.
YOU ARE READING
Pause.
PoetryOn growing collection of my tea drinking moments when my mind is well 'a bit' more silent.
