walking through the hallways
every day, always
i see you walking.
it isn't just one memory
it's a scrapbook full
i have to keep walking
because you destroyed yours.
every day, always
reminded of the sick and twisted things
you did to me
maybe there were a few screws loose
but still i chose
you.
YOU ARE READING
Conversations With Myself
PoetryWhat is it that I think? Does it even matter? I leave a lot of things unsaid, unheard, and well.. Here's all the things I wish someone would've and could've heard me say.
