Writing to Wednesday

This is a poem I wrote back in march

Hem of my Dress

You don't know my fears

You can't listen with my ears

My hands shake back and forth

You look at me like I'm from 1941

Take a step too close

Don't move a muscle

Make eye contact 

With my hand on the hem of my dress

Make your self at home

Leave me standing at the door

Sneak up behind me

Let me cough on nothing

Let me hold your hand

I never done anything like this before

You should've known 

The consequences leading up to

This part, leading up to now

Is just a fabrication, let alone real 

Your hair curls around your face

My eyes dart to your eyes in a daze

Faintly out of reach

Nothing seems to matter 

I never done anything like this before

You should've known 

The consequences leading up to

This part, leading up to now

Is just a fabrication, let alone real