She tells me how I am supposed to feel.
She tells me what I feel is wrong,
wrong,
wrong.
And I feel her eyes on me.
They burn. I am on fire.
She tells me not to cry. I do want to be a man, don't I? Men don't cry.
YOU ARE READING
undone - a poetry book
Poetrypoems. about death. about love. although i was never really sure there was that much of a difference there. for is it not true that when we die we are loved more?
