The sharp stench of stale coffee in the room’s breath.
I keep seeing the clouds in the air
that I breathe from my mouth,
in this cold room without light
with walls white.
I know I should leave what’s not mine,
to give into the doubts of the time.
But the hope you tried to scrape from my skin persists,
even after I have washed my face with red lava.
And so I sit in this chair,
day after day
watching the world go by through the glass
that does not reflect me.
© That Girl in the Fray, 2018. All rights reserved.