Don't be one of them, Harls. Those stupid Wintergirl wannabes.
The venom with which his words are spat shocks me.
The Wintergirls which have become so dear and adored and comfortable to me, which were like reading into mine own soul.
Who have become me.
It positively drips with poison from between his lips.
As if it were the worst thing I could be.
As if I should be someone he can take out and hold onto like a butterfly by its wings, beautiful and pretty and perfect in show for his family and friends.
Look how well I've done.
Look at my pretty, perfect wife.
Look at how happy we are.
Please, kindly ignore her wrists
And the sadness behind her smile.
No, she doesn't eat, that's right.
She says it keeps her pure or something.
Fucking embarrassing.
YOU ARE READING
Gone, Gone, Gone
PoetryPerhaps better ignored than enjoyed, this is a place for me to dump poetry and short verse.
