They stabbed you, not by knives, not by scissors, but their words
Your skin etches from the pain that lingers through every single thing he had said, but you can't help but heal yourself
For no one will
What's hurting inside of you is something not everyone can touch
Something needs permission from you first so they can access
Something like your soul
Or your heart
They've hurted you
That matters
But what have you done to yourself?
That now, you're drowning in the depth of the ocean
With the mirror's hiding behind your palms
For you only care about what other's faces in front of your gloss
But on your own
It was never looked
Cause you only targeted what they have done, regretted
But not about what have you committed
Stop looking at them but look at yourself looking at them
Aren't you doing good for yourself?
YOU ARE READING
One Hundred Fifty
RandomFifty, Fifty, Fifty A writing challenge for myself is to create fifty poems, fifty essays, and fifty one-shot stories, every single prekeng day to make it a hundred and fifty days of honing my skills and giving sparks to my interest. Here's the deal...
