I spend my days trying to prove that I am worth every smile, spitting out the cold sores in my heart they shoved down my throat in my teenage hood, trying to prove them wrong, to show them I too am beautiful and worthwhile. Yet now I am religiously drowning in sea shells, sitting on your shrinking grace, dishing out apologies like they were your favourite late night cuisine, your glass brimming with my mortal sins I wish to could have avoided but I am past salvation now, my disgruntlement with life catches up with me even in my sleep that I am constantly pouring my wounds out in leaking buckets and worn out houses with broken windows and wide shut doors. Hell has no place for souls who cannot quantify their worth, bargaining for silly gestures from strangers just to survive a day in my skin and my scars are beyond sweet tongues, foolish time passing conversations and thin legs. But I swear I am tired of choking on these hot stones they left in my plate when I could barely make out the difference between Santa and God. •Letters to Cinnamon•
Posted on: Tue, 16 Dec 2014 11:33:03 +0000
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