it doesn’t seem like clouds to me

I felt from my thirteenth birthday,

like I was squinting into the sun.

White dots floating,

tears on pointed toes poised prickling in the corners of my eyelids,

knowing your eyes hurt while they are shut,

never mind how much they will hurt when you open them again.

But then when nineteen came around,

I dared to take a peak,

and between damp eyelashes I saw,

that there was no one there at all.

I decided I better get moving,

stood bleary eyed in the clearing,

pulling my sunglasses down from my head,

I enjoyed the warmth on my skin.

Imy Brighty-Potts

Photo by Ivana Cajina

Categories: Poetry

Imy Brighty-Potts

I am the founder and editor of The Hysteria Collective, poetry writer, play lover and Philosophy and Politics graduate. Hobbies include wine, cheese and coffee. @imybrightypotts on Twitter. @imyiswriting on Instagram.

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