There is something that lingers on the breadth of her fingers — a forgotten desire, a persistent despair — and as the wintry nights pass like windswept petals, her petulant lies swell with indifference.
Will she submerge herself into the battlefield? To lose her dance and to liberate her silks? Yes, child, she would.
In blood and turbulence, she would.
Even if it'd cost her her golden stares.
So you see, this was how the exchange began. The death of a bleak girl, the rise of an impetuous killer.
〝 BETWEEN BODIES, BETWEEN PINING DESIRES, SHE FOUND A NEW ENTITY. 〞
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
