As I stand on the old skin that shed from me,
The work isn't done.
Too long I have been quiet,
Taking the heat.
100 degree burn peeling off my delicates.
Hard to move but for once I am free.
It's a new day.
Fresh ideas cut through me.
Old wounds resurface.
I sharply inhale.
Then I realized my insecurities don't disappear.
They will always come out to fight me.
Don't worry, you're used to blood. You will prevail.
~ ~ ~
A/n:
Omg, this is my 80th poem!
"Others will never truly understand your journey." -unknown.
-Miss Yanxiet