Sometimes, I could have sworn gun shots went off every time I heard your name, leaving traces of gun powder in my hair, covering me in the remains of your essence. All that you left behind stood out like day and night, but just a bit clearer, reminding me of you every second that I lived, every time I took a breath. And sometimes, I could have sworn that you're voice hit me like bullets every time you sang, often leavings broken and bloody, metal still etched into my skin. You left me wounded and empty, but what else could I have expected from a shotgun in disguise.
DED & BNW
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teenage fools
PoetryI write poetry about life, death, love, hurt, depression, and basically everything.
