I read a poem by Cheryl Strayed, the final line said "acceptance is a small, quiet room"
Within that line I felt my world expand just a little, by only centimetres, not inches.
Acceptance doesn't seem quiet or small to me, rather the loudest crash of china, the clatter of cutlery, carnival craze, white noise that drones on rather glumly. Neither is it small, instead bigger than any matter I've ever seen, stretching vastly across my skin, over my sheets, until it is draped annoyingly over the whole world and we can't see shit. It's just darkness that not even Apollo can conquer. Cumbersome and clamouring acceptance is there.
Acceptance is a slow and painful death, acceptance is a festering infection, a slow burn romance.
Acceptance is hurtful and hard, with that said I also agree,
acceptance is a small, quiet room
YOU ARE READING
Hysterical letters to my sanity
Poetrya collection of poems inspired by stories I've read, people I've met and paths I've crossed, read and enjoy yourself:)
