It was her
Who slithered through the seems of my confinement
It was her
Who infringed upon
The darkest corners of my psyche
It was her
At the bottom of the bottle
Pills and alcohol
It was her
Sharpened to a point
Tearing through my skin
And It was her
In the reflection of the broken shards of my life
Surrounding me
Unable to take step
Without pain
I wallowed alone
With a thousand reflections of death
Tormenting me
Enticing me
A thousand reflections of myself
Staring back at me
With judgmental eyes
A thousand opinions
Of who I am
And who I should be
A thousand voices
So loud
And so familiar
It was her
Who offered silence
And comfort
It was her
Who displayed a utopia
At the end of a dark rainbow
It was her
Who presented an escape
From the dysphoria That shimmered in those shards
And it was me
Who told her
No
About the Creator
Alice Gru
I was mistaken for a porcelain doll when I was younger. That porcelain is now broken and expressed through poetry.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.