I always thought that people approached me to reproach that something was wrongs about me
I become so discreet I think its something from my up bridging brough in some mituculous way from my shy nature as a character
So discreet to the point where even the hate I had for myself didn't make its presence clear rubbing against my teeth didn't make me bleed like its supposed to like a thief I robbed my skin; without knowing
Parcels of the surface called soundness of the mind
Touching myself to forget the Dread of emptiness
Be aware that I still respond with a pair of hands with a heartbeat that's felt like a cardiac arrest
It's like some girl spoke back to me
Give yourself to me
Ride the wave
18 août 2022
YOU ARE READING
Field Notes ▪︎ Prose (2)
PoetryKillin' a few with a smile is what's called romanticism of war 🫀 Short texts about my mental affliction
