She's been wrong about her heart before.
She's held on to her heart,
As an incomplete whole.
Afraid to be left a little uncomfortable.
With a gaping hole in her chest.
She thought that it would grow.
That incomplete whole.
That hole,
That gaping hole.
She tried to fill it for sometime.
But found she was drowning overtime.
She had stepped out of line.
Her heart was half and she had holes.
She wanted to grow flowers,
In the holes of her heart.
She packed the spots with soft dirt,
And added some seeds.
In hopes some beauty would grow within.
Instead of watering her holes with H20.
In hopes flowers would bloom beautiful.
She watered her holes,
When she was feeling less whole,
With spirits and fine wine.
She had already overflowed.
And overtime the seeds died,
The dirt dried fast.
Her holes were left uncovered.
Her heart never recovered.
And she was still left,
Unwhole.
YOU ARE READING
She.
PoetryPoetry, scenes and short stories written from the fingertips of a girl who doesn't know her own heart. She's filled each corner with love and light that she thought was pure just to watch it rot off and fill like a gaping dark hole. But these heartb...
