She locks herself,
in the bathroom,
Knowing of loom,
Of her demise.
Stomach empty,
Ribs showing,
Skin healing,
Eyes never glowing.
Skinny hands,
Veins of steel,
Colder than winter,
Face of teal.
Slower the sounds,
That make up her frowns,
Slower the lungs,
As she smokes her last blunt.
Louder the sigh,
As she prepares to die.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Journal
PoetryPoetry is a doorway to the soul. Don't open the door if you're afraid of what's inside. All of these are my original works so copyright is on them.
