And maybe I was born
With this feeling at home in my bones.
This weight
This constant thought
That I am not
Enough.
Or maybe it's a
Poison.
Trapped in my veins from the first time I was
Bitten
By words far sharper than my
Thick skin
Could handle.
So I am stuck.
Between the notion that I am a forest
Rooted in sorrow
Or a
Patient
Waiting for exsanguination
So that the poison is pushed out
And I can begin to
Flow
Again.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
And maybe I was born
With this feeling at home in my bones.
This weight
This constant thought
That I am not
Enough.
Or maybe it's a
Poison.
Trapped in my veins from the first time I was
Bitten
By words far sharper than my
Thick skin
Could handle.
So I am stuck.
Between the notion that I am a forest
Rooted in sorrow
Or a
Patient
Waiting for exsanguination
So that the poison is pushed out
And I can begin to
Flow
Again.
Request permission to use this poem