What's behind the door? Why is it closed?
It's me.
I'm behind the door.
Or maybe it's a part of me or a version of me that I don't understand. It's me but it's not.
I came into the room and saw her, or me, standing there: 5'6" with long black hair and big dark eyes staring back at me. Those brown eyes I was used to seeing in mirrors and photos suddenly grew teary, almost fearful, as she reached out to me. So I ran out and closed the door behind me. Now she's crying out to me for help. I don't know what to do as she screams Help! and Please! through sobs. I want to help, I swear, but how can I help her if I can barely help myself?
YOU ARE READING
senseless.
Poetrysort of a journal and a way to clear my thoughts "in a healthy way." started it when i was fifteen so some stuff might not be the best, but enjoy.
