The edge of seventeen

The crumpled bedsheet, the not so warm blanket

In a room that screams at you

With silent whines

Leaking into your chest

Of the empty walls, like your empty insides

Screaming with an undeafening rage

caught up in the suspension of time

The days just melt together

muddling into a whirlwind of the incessant noise

Wrapped up in your mess,the wrecks of demise

head feels heavy and hollow at the same time

The heavens had you arche over the edge of

One attached to

The symbol of perfection

forging the museum of a subtle paralyzing destruction

And now you're wondering if you're back to square one

And if you're walking on a fine line

Again?

18, huh. I don't wanna get older. What a terrifying thing it is, to have the reigns of your life entirely to yourself. What if you stumble, trip over and mess up?