depression
is a skilled
butcher;
every whetted
edge slipped
quietly between
my ribs
where
vacant places
are already taken
up by words
and somehow
there are you
in the curve of
the letters
and the walls
of my chest:
quiet and
apathetic for
ruins
—how i wish both of us can be this self-preserving
YOU ARE READING
an ocean of teardrops
PoetryI avoid surfaces with reflections, avoid facing reality. At the sea, where I last washed away my scars only to have them appear in different places, different faces. And so I try comforting myself through imaginary conversations with the people I lo...
