‘I think I’m dying a little inside,’
She says to the world outside
But her words get lost in the ceiling fan
That’s spinning around her head.
Her smile is all smoke and mirrors,
Her life, just a crude sleight of hand
And the cuts on her arms all emotions
That silently prays for an end.
She thinks maybe it’s tomorrow,
Although it feels like today
And yesterday? It’s always the same
Played on a scratched 45.
She’s ordered a dress to be buried in
But it’s going to take time to arrive
And irony scoffs from the top of his tower
As her phone rings for the last time.
Copyright ©RMC May 2020
I just went with this one, this is how it came out with very few changes
Photo by Katii Bishop from Pexels
Mistyroads 