fiftieth part woo
when my parents text me, 'call us, we miss you.' they really mean, 'please, let us know you're still alive.'
when they come round to my house, their beady eyes scan the nearly empty rooms, lingering over stains on the floor and mugs on the tables. they whisper that they love me when they hug me, but they mean that they're worried about me, they think i have a drug problem, that they want me to come home. when my parents call me because they can't stand my silence or theirs they simply listen to my breathing, for it reassures them that i am still there, in that nearly empty house on the outskirts of a big city, stains on the floor and mugs on the tables, alone except for my hovering thoughts and the hovering smoke shrouding my greasy hair and glassy eyes in grey.
it reassures them that i am still alive, although i wish i weren't.
YOU ARE READING
broodings
Poetryin which a teenage girl writes about girls, goddesses and other shit. ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 2016
