lunes, 10 de julio de 2017

Whispers in the dark

I am broken
into pieces.
One hundred
and a half.

Neither good,
nor bad.
It just hurts.

A chronical
headache
living
in my heart.

Whenever
they ask me
about pain,
I just
laugh.

A genouine,
pure, raw
shout
coming from
my throat.

I wish 
I could tell them
how does it feel
to be torn.

May it be better 
to keep it to myself
in the depths
of my empty,
sole,
pond.

Image result for paula bonet illustration

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