i'm still really bad at talking about it
and by it, i mean the creature underneath my bed
with glass shreds as teeth
and by that i mean, the girl that looks just like me
with just more dirt between her finger nails
by that i mean the walls that squeezes me into my
my own chest
and by all of this i mean, my depression
my depression that i'm always trying to filter
trying to personify
because i can't talk about it
i can't be honest about it unless i turn it into poetry
-y.s
YOU ARE READING
plastic flowers
Puisilife is never perfect. it's messy and even the most perfect people put on a face. just like plastic flowers, from afar i can look put together but up close i'm everything but. *a collection of poems*
