horror
I lay in my shaded room,
unaware if I should sob or start grinning.
my sight turns dark and I wonder
if this is just the beginning of the end,
or the end of the beginning.
Am I good person. Yes.
Are you? Significantly.
But how can you judge others for doing wrong,
when you do wrong.
The only difference is the aspect is put differently.
I do not own a soul,
my soul is what I am.
my body shelters my soul,
but because I am a woman,
I take revenge on what I can not
contain,
on how I didn’t choose my appearance,
when in truth it’s not even my identity,
my soul is what makes me human.
I despise myself for how I connect
with my emotions so deeply,
how I sit in my black pit and wallow.
But that’s what I get
for choosing to live with the right side
of my brain.
I write my poetry
with not my hand
but my sorrow.
A