Red bleeds from her fingers, slipping through her porcelain bones, hitting those lies like bullets. They are her solace, her fight, the dusky moon to her fake suns. But you see, don't you? It's peculiar beauty, the flowers when they graze the star-kissed floors, when they bloom into petalled gold, centres dripping with unseen nectar.
And between those ensnaring lies that wrapped around her lips, he tasted the honey in her bitter truths.
❝ GIVE ME THE CHANCE TO SEARCH FOR THOSE SCATTERED PIECES WITH YOU. ❞
YOU ARE READING
WICKED HEARTS
Poetry❝ WE ARE ALL THE BAD IN SOMEONE'S STORY. ❞ do not copy. all rights reserved ⓒ 𑁍 blue rose awards | first place in poetry & second place in unknown story
