Don’t touch my inner hell,
I was raised in concrete breath.
Built in USSR,
I’ve been flirting with death.
I eat your problems for breakfast,
no sugar, no cream.
Your breakdowns?
Babe, I call that a dream.
Where you stress, I’m chilling.
Where you cry, I’m still.
Traumatized Russian woman
got apocalypse skill.
Zombies, nukes, men’s bullshit
yeah, I’ve seen it all.
While you scroll through your panic,
I’m dancing through the fall.
I bled through days like silent war,
cramps like knives, still went to war.
So don’t sell me your positivity,
Your smiley face is toxicity.
Don’t touch my pain, it’s mine to keep,
I wear it deep, I wear it steep.
I turned my ruin into rhythm,
No savior, shrink or exorcism.
I walked through fire, I made it art,
Barefoot and proud, with a war-torn heart.
don t touch my pain
© Copyright: Аксинья Шустер, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125071106244
Свидетельство о публикации №125071106244
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