recovering
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You may think it, but it isn't worth it
I'm getting pretty sick of your shit
You've got friends, family, someone to love
But away with all that for liquor you shove
Pour it down the drain
Dear Liana*,
How do you do?
It’s been years
Since I’ve talked to you
I used to feel
Like I was to blame
Because inside,
We both were the same
But somehow you lost
Dragging hearts,
Falling feats,
Fading art,
Slowing beats,
THEN
Gaining vigor
Moving on,
Growing rigor,
Finding dawn.
These scars are not telling you
About some beautiful tragedy.
These scars say
I’m fucked up.
They scream
Every time I get my heart broken I cut my hair. I want to cut off inches upon inches, rid my scalp of the hurtful hands that ran through my hair, every playful stroke and every aggressive pull will be erased.
If my body was a tree,
I would have spend half my life trying to chop my very self down.
A year ago today, I was living my life in fear.
I didn't know where I was going to go after high school,
And I didn't know what I was going to do.
The door finally closes, another day spent,
Another act finished, but I’m not content.
I look in the mirror, stare into my eyes –
Were they fooled today by my act, my disguise?
