I think the worst part is your words
counting the imperfections ; slowly.
Reminding me of being young,
and counting the numbers of how many steps to the cold kitchen tiles,
which is 43.
43 words, your words.
Words that’ll drown out the tender ones of a mother,
it’s time to realize that you’re not a princess anymore.
Pink doesn’t really suit you,
or so they say.
Your words are nasty,
nothing like the faded turquoise of the sticky notes.
The ones that reminded you to smile before eating the apple at lunch
For once, exhaustion hits,
which is warm and familiar,
From the words
A very common occurring thought when I was struggling with issues related to bullying was me wanting to go back. I remember wanting to relive my childhood days, back when everything was simple. I would compare life back then to the present, so that is what the poem is about. Many life lessons later, I’ve learned that yearning for the past never helps. I hope whomever reads this knows that they’re worth it, and words that others call you, do not define you. You are loved, and you’re needed.