Becauseat the end of the day,
it's the four tear-soaked walls
that embrace my dead ravings
of getting fooled.
I broke myself into a thousand pieces
stained in blood,
and then picked those pieces
to create a saferoom
of startling laughter from the mirror.
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A/N: It's been a late update, but I guess I can see some kind votes and lovely comments, can't I?
BẠN ĐANG ĐỌC
the slow art of breathing bitter
Thơ Caslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||