#this poem

Because if my writing feels repetitive

You can now imagine how it feels in my head

Welcome to the Ferris Wheel

That never ends

Come run your fingers

Along my scars that never

Really heal

Come sit in my exhaustion

Come feel how I feel

Come watch the same

Scenes play and rewind

And play and rewind

You think my writing feels repetitive

Let me introduce you to my

mind

When I was just a young child, my mother made a flower crown. She said it was a crown made for royalty. And though it was nothing but daisies, I cherished that crown.

It sat upon my head, a reminder to sit up straight. It wasn’t much. But it was mine.

That crown has long since wilted, the petals are browned and dry. It is not something to be proud of, with all its beauty gone.

Today I do not feel like royalty. I do not feel regal at all. My hair is tangled and my makeup smeared, my hands are cut and my back aches. When I look in the mirror, I do not recognize myself.

I have a ring of briars, And it is sitting on my head. It is digging into my skin, it is sharp and it is cruel. It is not a crown of daisies, but it is a crown of spikes.

I do not feel the stabbing of the thorns. I do not see the blood. I am not the child from long ago, with a crown of flowers. Instead I wear a crown of thorns.

The wound lies deep, like the ocean floor.