she's running, (is she okay?) the girl with the ivory skull full of sticks has golden wine trickling down her sweet cheeks, leaving her trace of innocence behind. her thin layer of blood dipped nails (daggers) rakes into her skin and—she's running through a field of flowers.
ghostly patterns of bliss (sorrow) are carved into small florets on her dress, and it flows as she runs,
is she happy?
the line of her happiness is thin because once she blew on the downy dandelion, the wind had changed,
the sun had drained, and the flowers began to rot (more so than they already had).
her foolish self hadn't noticed the daisies choking,
so she kept running.
she didn't want to drown in her own innocence once the (red) water tide swept through—and she's ungrateful.
she's selfish, and the angels know (they always warned her) she's delirious to the way she had everything, and she doesn't realize it's starting to rot away just like the flowers,
and she's scared.
she's horrified and the only way for her to (not) fall into her casket is to dig her blood dipped nails into her mind of regret,
but is she still happy?
barely, her line of happiness is thin.
YOU ARE READING
deadly garden
Poetryeverything's growing in our garden you don't have to know that it's haunted POETRY BOOK
