You show me a picture
of when we were young,
smile sweetly and laugh at the memory,
and when I start to cry
at your digging up old wounds,
somehow, it's about you.
Silent breakdown 12km away
and you just keep talking
about missing the 'good old days'
when I hated myself
and was dependent on your cheap,
marshmallow words.
I hug my scars and excuse myself,
old wounds dripping
with grey regret and amber hate,
as you have the audacity to act offended
somehow still thinking
it's all about you.
YOU ARE READING
yellow paper
PoetryYet another collection of poems, these written in 2019. Confessional, emotional, and irrational styles. Feel free to comment or message me.
