It hurts.
Not like a knife,
not like you'd expect.
Not like anything,
really.
Its more of a
mental pain.
Curling, crushing.
folding in and in.
It hurts, though,
and I wouldn't expect
you to know.
It's just how it is.
(note, not all of my poems are autobiographical. Most aren't. That doesn't mean they're not real for some people, though)
hey em, i'm trying to stay updated with my poems on my quizilla, it's called cheatandcharmer. if you want to read them...? just letting you know.
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