Ceramic Dreams

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My skin is porcelain, ceramic dreams draped in white that find themselves hanging from my back weighing in on my spine and a pool of downward spiraling self-confidence glued under my eyes/dark circles personified.

Regrets sticking to my thighs, a plethora of broken promises accumulated under my skin like cellulite. The brown in my eyes, coffee breaks and sugar cubes in cups of tea with all that laughter, the jokes mixing into the wrinkles at the end of my forehead. A summers worth of sweat, grains of sand under my feet by the beach and the salt of the sea, the tears I’d weep. The steadiness of every breath, Head against my mothers chest and every eyelash that fluttered and fell. Smudged mascara, existentialism at its finest and nails painted black. Rejection in every scrape across the knees in red jealousy may tell another story then comes the seasonal depression, claw marks on my neck and so it never seems to end a December night under Christmas lights, hot cocoa and murky black hair. The feeling of hopelessness settling in my stomach before it starts to find a place the tiny things my friends often say warming up the ache. My skin is porcelain, old-fashioned China cracking up on the outside with all the gloom in my eyes but my days seem to be more steady, nights more alive and the insides of my mind starting to light up one room after the other like streets on festival night. And so I guess this year wasn’t all that bad after all.-H

 

 

 

 

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