dear oliver,
wake up, goddammit.
don’t listen to their
words, of filthy lies,
of misery dripping
off the edges of
the beeps of
your heart.
your dying
heart.
overdose.
five months:
of the powder,
of the monster
swimming inside
of you.
you tried to swim,
to swim away,
but you were
held back,
by your
anchor.
no, not the
drugs, not the
alcohol, not
the smoking.
by you.
and you tried
to free yourself,
but you failed.
you failed so
damn bad.
so you drowned.
but we found you,
eyes closed, wet
note.
quinn
YOU ARE READING
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PoetryQuinn scribbles tainted emotions across thin layers of white paper. But to who? To someone who blinks once, sees her, and blinks again-just to make her disappear. To someone who sees her as a symbol of the ocean. To someone who thinks the ocean is...
