Clear to me a certain hour of the day
For a few seconds, at best,
The truth:
I’ve been locking drawers and
Sweeping pages under the rugs
Severing ties with July’s warmth
Tying a string across these months
I’ve been coping by fading into myself,
Shedding my skin by burning it off.
I have the pain but it isn’t felt,
And I know it isn’t right, but is it enough?
I’m stuck beneath the surface,
Pounding at the ceiling of a frozen lake
It is August and I thaw,
But still I don’t cry, I just ache
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 1:52 PM UTC
Clear to me a certain hour of the day
For a few seconds, at best,
The truth:
I’ve been locking drawers and
Sweeping pages under the rugs
Severing ties with July’s warmth
Tying a string across these months
I’ve been coping by fading into myself,
Shedding my skin by burning it off.
I have the pain but it isn’t felt,
And I know it isn’t right, but is it enough?
I’m stuck beneath the surface,
Pounding at the ceiling of a frozen lake
It is August and I thaw,
But still I don’t cry, I just ache
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