Our lives are just like books
Filled with numerous chapters
We may not like what’s inside
But turning the page and
Continuing the story
Is the only way to move on

I cannot help
But to cling
To the memories
Where I once was
Beautiful,

Reduced now
To cold food
In a cracking bowl,
Shivering
Without a blanket,

And typing
Into a text box
I secretly hope
Will delete
This awful thought.

She felt herself
Maudlin and a
A stitching that
Too often came
Undone,

But she what
She could not see
Beyond her angel wings
Was the light she made
While sunken in her grave

Surrounded by a ink
That spread through her
Veins and poisoned
Her brain and tinted
Whatever fluid
Sloshed about
In her eyes piercing green
On some days,
Hazel brown on others,

Enveloped in darkness,
Shaded by trees,
The leaves sung for her
And the grass danced,
But she felt wrong
In her own skin
And tried to cut it off.