Mass and Volume

Another battle with a womens appearence...

Every breath seems to be forced

It must be the winter winds

Or the summer drafts

 

Yet every moment

Is made of fire

A place death is even afraid of

 

All this time

I thought I was right

In image and reflection

 

Yet my eyes must be telling lies

For the giver of my life

Seems to despise my mass and volume

 

It’s okay though

Ill feel better with the morning’s rays

Or at least with another 10 breaths

 

or so...