Rheana Cherie writes fiction for the greater good of realistic, hopeless romantics and hopes to create a better world through the written word.
No longer
Good enough
Barely tolerable
A few hours a day
Counting down the hours
In order to run away
From conversations
More lackluster than her
A dark cloud
She’s become
Someone not inherently fun
Since her spirit spilt in two
And her friends held the gun
The self help books tell me to be gentle with myself.
But how could I when I’ve lost everyone around me?
The self help books tell me that when you settle into your strength,
people will leave.
Because you make them uncomfortable.
But…
The wounded part wonders if it’s true
or false,
or a figment of the imagination.
Because how much self-help
must one subject themselves to,
before you know the answer
to whether it is you,
or them?
Or is everyone misplaced
and dealing
with demons
much greater
than
mine?