puke.
i want to fucking puke.
i want to puke as i open my closet,
watch not bile, but ichor come forth from my lips.
watch as someone who is not me forms from that ichor,
someone who is reborn: not as a person,
but as a memory.
a skeleton.
a twisted, contorting memory that rips and tears at my edges.
a looming skeleton at the edges of these slamming closet doors.
i stare inside and wonder,
can i ever truly rid of the skeleton in my closet.
for when i open it,
she is there.
she, not me.
me, not she.
she is not me, she has never been me .
she, who caused me years of confusion.
she, who was repressive.
she was confused.
she was scared.
i feel sick,
yet remorseful.
she was me,
yet, not anymore.
now , when i open my closet to set my eyes upon her withering shell,
all i feel is puke.
puke, rising in my chest,
words, forming at my lips that cannot escape.
sickness in my stomach that grows,
spreads, like blood in water.
YOU ARE READING
🍀 when the leaves grow back 🍀
Poetry'' maybe one day when i wake, i will see that the leaves have grown back on that old dead tree. maybe one day when i wake, i will no longer be filled with dread, but with glee. but that day is far from now , and i havent the patience to wait. '...
