Her

She still visits me sometimes...

In the night, she clambers into my bed

and causes a ruckus of negativity in my head.

 

She plays the strings of my heart

like the most beautiful harp,

baring the music of my soul to those not worthy of hearing it.

 

You know, 

 I have never found it easy

to say no.

 

I always allow myself to fall victim

to her terribly soothing caress

and her enigmatic portrait of the end.

 

She entices me

with her promises

of pain.

 

Like a bird learning to fly,

I will fall from the sky,

and never be able to lift my broken wings again.

 

Her scent clings to my body,

and I can still feel her presence days later,

when I look at the paintings she has left in my skin.

 

She will never leave me, 

and I will always know

the weight of her arms on my shoulders

 

always pulling me back,

back,

towards the darkness.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741