From a Girl Who Has Borderline Personality Disorder

The walls were once crystal but now they're brown and left riddled with mold.

Vertebrae's crack louder than dead leaves under my feet leaving pieces of gold.

We all have our stories, we all tend to overlook different books.

I, the butterfly, goes over a pond.

Feeling too fond

 I see a hole in a tree.

Couldn't be me, I flee