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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s