Sleek curves defined as my smile that hides the unfazed version of me. Am I happy? Or am I just portrayed to be. People seem to think they understand me. But can never appreciate the raw feelings that gushes to its way into my self-expression I can constantly swallow pills and sipping known names of wine down to the pit of my stomach numbing this senseless feeling. I've done this before. I've been here before. In this same criterion, I've lived through this shadow before. There is no difference in telling me to get my shit together. But your expressions cannot define my true feelings towards you. You use foreplay for the expressions that collide with how you really feel about me. Excuse the psychotics and narcotic versions of me because I was never born that way but created. Self-creations are who you want to be but other creations are what people want to perceive. So, excuse me while I shout in my head I despise you for not loving me the way I should be loved. It's not me but the both of us. Only thing is I own up to my part. You own up to shaming me into a bundle of Chenin blanc loving narcotics.
YOU ARE READING
Forbidden Ode. Book One
ChickLitIts a game we once learned as a child to express the things you believe the most. No one never said that being a women in the eyes of others would create chaos of destruction.
