(All writing published here is owned by me unless cited otherwise.)
Vunerability is on my knees gathering up the broken glass
While he screams at me from above
And there are beautiful flowers in my hair
Wilting from the embaressment of being in the wrong place.
Vulnerability is finding yourself in your dying mother’s hospital room,
wearing the neon pink shoes you bought because you thought they were funny.
Vulnerability is knowing you spent three hundred dollars on the wristwatch that is sliding down the arm you are using to defend yourself against a man with a gun.
Vulnerability is knowing that he won’t ever love you.
Vulnerability is displacement.
Vulnerability is guilt.
Vulnerability is our skins.