search for the tragedy in me, pick away to find the melancholy echo of a hymn in place of the marrow in my bones.
when you are finished, let me pick the splinters out from the floorboards and build them into the shape of a body again.
you're a searcher of stories, sweetness, consumer of songs kept buried under layers of roughened flesh.
teach me, I ask, for even I have not grown so apathetic.
teach me to be cold, because I am fever hot.
YOU ARE READING
we become saints
Poetrywhat really is the difference between a 𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱 and a 𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗? In my experience, there is no difference at all. [this is a collection of poems i've scribbled down into my notebook and forgotten about mostly! i'm hoping to turn them into s...
