Photo by Anthony Tran on Unsplash
These four enclosed walls:
Home is where my prison is.
Depression is real.
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Hope Is the Thing with Feathers, and She Looks Like a Creature Who's Been Through It
Hope is the thing with feathers, and she looks like a creature standing thigh-deep in a pile of her own ash and soot, with watery eyes and she’s choking a little on the tendrils of smoke still curling up from the black, charred evidence of the past nine months — compiled at her sore and clawed, tired and somewhat unevenly sized feet.
By Bethany Dodgea day ago in Poets
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