My pain is growing up, it’s getting older and older making me so small and little.
Strength is dying within me, and all I’m doing is mourning both.. its death and mine.
I can’t seem to find a way to get to the core of my pain and cut it out.. maybe make something creative out of it..
My best friends, my mother, and that stranger with the fine composed words… none of them can see how old and young I am..
I always thought that people have eaten my mind away, but I am sure now that I am the one who has eaten it.
Death has crawled to my very own skin, whispering in my ears, hovering over my eyes, demanding me to scream my soul out.. that I have become its own skin..
I do not know how to end this, I have a problem with the ending of every single thing…
How do people live? because I don’t want to die…
Until I grab a hold of a strong hand,