everyone has that one bra that makes everything okay
even the boys?
We have that one brah that makes everything okay
and who made you the person that couldn’t stop running around to pick up the pieces? your walls are covered with notes you’ve written to yourself late at night when you tried to remember how shattered you were. havent you bloodied your hands enough picking up shards of who you used to be? you’ve these years building yourself into high towers of stone, yet youre crying over shattered windows.
isn’t it time you’ve learned you don’t have to mourn broken glass?