She was lying.
Bloodied sweater, torn books,
Purple scars, black eyes out.
The smoke was thick,
The grass was wet,
and her eyes were black.
And for the first time, the sea crashed down soft,
and I found a home in the black waves
before they hummed death.
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A/N: Phew! She finally found a home. Vote for her?
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
