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I count my breathes one by one,
I pause and think; swallowing all my words
I can say that I don't care- oh, but I do; their words always feel like pointed guns
to belong somewhere is all I yearn
I sit and speak and laugh and joke
until there is a pit in my stomach and on my tears- I internally choke
all's well until I don't provoke,
I've well rehearsed to stay hidden amidst the cover of my cloak
YOU ARE READING
Throes of Spring ✔️
Poetry[FEATURED] godhood is just like girlhood: a begging to be believed
