Misshapen by the hands that touch me, not one can sculpt me into a proper form. I'm starting to believe there is something wrong with what I'm comprised of and not that of the wielder.
Was I bestowed with the wrong ingredients - opposing myself when combined like vinegar and baking soda, Or did I corrode over time with every unsound decision that led to disaster.
YOU ARE READING
Cemented Soul
Short StoryIs there still hope for a cemented soul? This is a collective of narrative poems and short stories built around healing from life's traumas.