slither.
i will slither out of here
as soon as the clock strikes one
nobody cares anymore when the clock strikes one.
i can’t wait to slither up those vents
and squeeze myself through the pipes
until my textured skin
touches the ground
and combs itself through the grass
until I reach the fateful city
and I can lose myself in it.
YOU ARE READING
untitled.
PoetryStars and painted candlelights are the only things that bother to keep me sane, these days. But it's okay. I know you're trying. (My first posted poetry collection)
