70% of body not water but brine.
An acid tongue, tougher than a
Batter of ten thousand limes.
Eyes that kill. A face more effective than Medusa's.
A personality that's a human pesticide.
Just a walking piece of poison.
Bitch.
There is a lump at the back of my throat.
I can feel it when I breathe.
Can almost taste it, the pile of frustration.
Ran out of my doses of niceness.
Stopped responding to guilt.
Resistant.
Now, there's nothing left to soothe the pain.
You can't beat it, can't kill it, can't fix it.
Been this way since forever.
Now there is nothing left but pieces.
Pieces of bitch.
YOU ARE READING
Strands of Time
PoetryA collection of feelings, hurts, experiences and lessons learnt, felt and lived. A road woven in time for 9 years and continuing. Information for Readers: You'll notice in the titles, the poems run from "Class 7 to Class 15", I started writing from...
