Ink smeared on pages left unfinished in a drawer. The butterflies that decorated and guarded my skin still lived. Secrets spilled into the words reaching those around me, freeing me of the chains of the unsaid. Persistent months of the impossible became the reality that let me go and let me live. But I couldn't tell you what any of it was for.
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. :)
