The author lives within another's story.
Rigid as a door, with mental complexities like the nail.
Trapped within her own bones,
Attempting to disperse herself with her own agility.
Every inhale she knows the feeling of a flustered heart.
By her lonesome, she crouches and rocks herself to death.
It all flutters beneath her curled lashes, and she carelessly falls with no expectation in mind.
Is that where she belongs?
And what if it's not enough?
Succumbing to degenerance, she bellows in the darkness of life.
Without wish to hold,
But with many cornucopias in hand,
She's relinquished the desire to fill, and accepted the thoughts of situational thirst.
No scorpion interbreed shames her sadistically
And no one summons streams from her orbs.
She's sacrificed for nothing, and will gain nothing in turn.
