Am I ill?

Stamping on my chest.

Devils claws sink into my shoulder.

Pushing me down

And sitting in my view.

Whispering ‘You are just another small time muse’

Meaningful gazes ask if I’m fine

Glances back scream ‘I’m fucked.’

I show a small apologetic smile

One that let’s you know I don’t need you.

That it will be fine.

It will be OK.

I am just someone who cries in the street on Thursday.

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Author: halesbee

23 year old, struggling to manage her mental health but not giving up. Likes cooking and baking, poetry, music and losing days in Netflix.

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