It starts slowly, these feels of breaking
and falling apart
into tiny, unredeemable pieces.
I don't notice it at first,
but I begin to hate myself-every smile
and soft twinkle in my eyes-feels less,
and I begin to think that I'm not good enough.
I'm not enough.
I fall apart on the inside, and the world shatters with me.
YOU ARE READING
seasons of my heart
PoesiaLove: infinitely personal and consistently imperfect. Life: like the seasons, continues to move on; never stopping and always changing. Hope: the persistent light in the dark.
