Demi al
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They tell me I’m wasting my breath—picking at scars that should be hidden under sleeves. As if we are best served by silence, wearing smiles like masks stitched too tight, our eyes peering out like ghosts from behind glass. These are the ones who believe in tidy appearances, that betrayal and pain can be buried…
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They tell me I’m wasting my breath—picking at scars that should be hidden under sleeves. As if we are best served by silence, wearing smiles like masks stitched too tight, our eyes peering out like ghosts from behind glass. These are the ones who believe in tidy appearances, that betrayal and pain can be buried…