I'm sick of the apologizing
and no longer being able to breathe.
This fire inside
has completely consumed me.
When I stand in front of the mirror there stares back
a long haired figure,
who laughingly mocks,
the person I used to be.
This is not me
This is not me
Where have you hidden the woman that I would once sit with
in my total solidarity?
W.P. Thighs
YOU ARE READING
Finding the Light
PoetryExplore a collection of poetry, written by a 28 year old woman, that is continually growing. These lines are working to be the therapy needed to push up from rock bottom and re-examine what true happiness is supposed to be.
