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Jessa Jayn Smith Mar 2020
Flowers growing out of concrete;
ivy clinging to the cement like
I cling to the sounds of the city
singing me to sleep.

Sirens in the distance,
but closer to home
than I'd like to think.


like a cigarette burning in my hand-
the smoke rising into the air
like I am a factory
working hard to make something
out of the pieces inside me.

Reassurance that I am a monument...
That I am a skyline in an urban jungle
built from scars and flesh, bones and ash.
Heartache and hope.

Blood runs through my veins
like the cars that drive down these streets,
and I am at home
in a place that is so loud
it drowns out the sounds of myself-
of the things that brought me here;
the things that changed me
from  a person

into a dangerous landscape.
Jessa Jayn Smith Mar 2020
Darling, you are so pure

and it seems I lie through my teeth
more than I grind them in my sleep

I simply don't


that I am nothing more than skin stretched over cracking bones.

— The End —