Fire tracing off her fingertips, the hem of her dress a flame
She was a pistol with a trigger so easy to press
Nobody talks over her, nobody walks over her
She does things her way.
Her body was a river
the cool water circling through her veins
The content painted on her face
She lived the free life
and nobody bothered her.
She does things her way.
YOU ARE READING
Quiver
Poetrya place where I've written my feelings when I felt them. it has become a story of depression and recovery, love and loss, hope and fear, and everything in-between. mostly poetry, sometimes stories. :)
