I can’t tell you what this feeling is,
But I can tell you it tastes like salt dripping from the hills on your cheekbones.
It smells like left-over hamburger helper with a side of Wonder Bread and butter.
It’s like being serenaded to sleep by the sounds of glass breaking,
Before waking to B.B. King and Eric Clapton playing their sad blues in your living room.
It’s wanting more but expecting the very least.
It’s somewhere between crying and laughing,
And throwing up in the middle.
I don’t know whether I want to leave or stay trapped forever.
It’s hating your life but longing to be alive.
The gift my father gave me.
About the Creator
Erica Scott
A young adult, self-proclaimed poet from Florida who writes from a place of uncertainty, just hoping to one day reach the depths of someone else's heart besides her own.
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