I still feel your hands on me, even though they're not your hands.
They're the hands of my loving boyfriend, yet certain environments give me flashbacks, thinking they're your hands.
I panic, my boyfriend comforts me.
You broke me, at a young age.
You forced me to grow up too quickly.
I'm vicious and lust hungry.
I think that when HE fucks me, it means he thinks I'm beautiful.
You told me the same thing, yet you'd leave me in the bed feeling empty.
I cried myself to sleep many nights, wondering why you did what you did.
I hate you.
The passion burns inside me like when Satan screams.
I hate you.
And I always will.
YOU ARE READING
My Shitty Poetry, That is the Inside of My Mind
PoetryHi, I'm the socially anxious, depressed, fucked up girl in the back of the class. This is a look into the inside of my brain. The depths of the depression and anxiety. I'll be using the art of poetry. Please enjoy. ***Some poems are older, but will...
