For so long,
My words have been
Echos and
My voice,
Clouds of steam.
My handwriting,
Little labyrinths
That no one can read.
I’ve forgotten
What my center
Is supposed
To feel like.
I’ve been living
In the margins
Of my own life.
For so long,
My words have been
Echos and
My voice,
Clouds of steam.
My handwriting,
Little labyrinths
That no one can read.
I’ve forgotten
What my center
Is supposed
To feel like.
I’ve been living
In the margins
Of my own life.