She hangs in the balance,
like those pills on her lips.
Creating her own dance,
but not with her hips.
It's a motion more like sobs,
a lot like a wreck.
She'll move with the mobs,
with a lynch around her neck.
Her mouth open wide,
ready for poison.
She's got everything to hide,
her words are the treason.
Her footing is loose,
and she might fall in.
She'll choose a truce,
Because she knows she'll never win.
YOU ARE READING
Butterflies come flying out [poetry]
PoetryThe words of a teenage girl with too many emotions and no other form of catharsis.
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