Wearied eyes, tangled tongue —
She haunts my thoughts, a specter sewn from discord.
Each flaw, each fracture — a spreading inkblot on my soul.
What are these scars etched deep in my margins?
Is there no solace in these shards, no calm beneath the storm that roars within my veins?
The mirror's cold glass asks again: Who am I not?
Each reflection, a sharp reminder — Why am I not perfect?
Why not gentle, soft as a child's worn blanket?
Why jagged — a voice that stutters through the silence?
My tongue is a twisted path of thorns,
Betraying even the simplest truths.
My words crash late, loud, misplaced.
I do not mean to be a fortress — locked, ironbound.
My heart is a fruit buried deep beneath stone,
These walls — defenses learned from a bruising world,
Layered in old wounds the world forgot to heal.
Yet beneath the bruises, a quiet pulse remains —
A soft light flickering through the cracks,
Whispering that even broken things can grow whole again.
- Echoes in the Glass
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YOU ARE READING
the words I kept
Poetry"𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼, 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓲𝓼𝓱..." these are the feelings I carried with me, thoughts I held back, scars I hid, and all the words I kept; my friend and my foe. Warning: some may be triggering, dis...
