Even when puke doesn't work,
I swear to God that blood does.
That's why pacts used to be signed
In the life essence of men, right?
In the crimson red liquid that beats
Into our hearts and out of my veins
As Nyx willingly claws at my legs, leaving
So fucking many scars to remind me that
I am but a canvas for his rage--
That I am nothing but a weak, fragile
Human being, and that I have nothing to be
proud of.
YOU ARE READING
i named him nyx
Poetry"I dedicate this book to anyone who feels like they have a two-tailed, red-eyed, demonic cat constantly watching over their right shoulder." The poems don't follow a particular chronological timeline.
