Why can't they see what is under my sleeves?
Why do they just leave?
The issue must be me, right?
All I do is fight.
What is love?
Is it nice, dove?
I trusted you.
If only you really knew.
If you knew the scars.
How it feels like I have sars.
How I want to run through yards.
Through my sobs.
Am I the issue?
Someone pass me a tissue.
I want to love.
Do you know what it’s like, dove?
Can you see them?
Do you know where they stem?
Those are scars, dove.
Do they scare you, love?
Don’t run.
Yes, you run, and now your stun.
I struggle to fight.
Staying a flight.
I look like I’m floating.
In reality, I am croaking.
wrote that the other day