What is it
that bones are saying
so trapped, silenced
beneath the skin?
Let it wash off,
the flesh is a figment
of an imagination.
Bones know nothing
and everything.
You don't have to tell them.
They are made of whispers,
too afraid
to say anything aloud.
YOU ARE READING
Teacup and other Torments
PoetryTell me why you're alone -the wonderland is forever closed. This is for the hearts who never find their homes.
