you raise your shackled and bruised wrists,
a flute of champagne in your trembling hands,
a toast of the greatest proportions
on your bleeding and split lips.
you think you're so important, but in reality, you're just egoistical.
YOU ARE READING
broodings
Poetryin which a teenage girl writes about girls, goddesses and other shit. ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 2016
