tomorrow you will wake up and none of this will have happened
the blood on the walls, in the carpet, embedded under your nails, goes,
flying away in streaks and slashes, sparkling like rubies in the lamplight
called home by the body on the floor
bones, re-unbroken, and marrow spilt,returned
wide eyes, rolled back, will gleam again—will blink and flutter and see
bruises taken back, peeled off like stickers until capillaries burst again
the smell, the stench, the burning knowledge of death, diffused and washed away
when you wake, the nightmare will not end
YOU ARE READING
collections of constellations and the stars || poetry collection
Poetrypoems often written at midnight, each telling its own story. an anthology of sorts. grammatically incorrect use of lowercase is an aesthetic choice and intentional. |incomplete|
