LII.
he is only the crying corpse that hits the road,
accompanied by the ghost of andy warhol.
he looks back once,
twice,
three times,
and sees women superimposed over the sand.
ripples in the yellow mimicking strands of their hair,
a dune tracing the curve of a hip,
my entire high school sinking into the sea.
A
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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...
