VII.
i am a museum.
every part of me is confusing and rough, the work of many people before me.
if an object is adjusted it remains that way until it is tampered with again.
tourists come and go.
somebody will find something of value.
B
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fifteen (XV)
Poetryi prick my finger on a rose in my garden. my blood is not red. i take the wind caressing my face as a silent apology. cover art made by doradorapuff on tumblr. [2015] thank you to everyone who shared with me these short poems as they were published...
