The weather’s been working overtime these days,

as if trying to melt of the ice from my shoulders;

It’s not easy, is it? Melting off the glaciers,

I’ve been hauling for years.

They say it’s time to use your hands, sweep up my hurt,

I’d thrown around like confetti, dig out the harsh words,

stuck in between the withering planks of the floor board.

I’m not someone who forgives,

grace and acceptance have never been my forte;

I feel too much and remember even more,

I fumble for words,

stumbling, falling, giving up;

I feel too fat on the first day of work,

constantly sucking my stomach in;

I keep my head up,

I don’t want them to notice the double chin.

My father thinks, talking to me

is like treading on eggshells;

He doesn’t, therefore, talk to me,


I’m too much of a risk.

I feel disgustingly smug when they ask me about my sleeves,

I know a secret they’ll never know.

The reality transcending into dreams,

I sleep too much, makes it easy to deny,

waking up, I shrug it off

“It was just a dream.”



I've been writing poetry since I was a kid and my poetry is without fail a description of things that matter, to me. I pretend to not like love poetry. I have an insane love for popcorn!

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