and sometimes
it just envelopes
you like a tight
knit sweater,
little black
strings slithering
their way onto
your skin,
into your pores,
around your bones
little black
strings fade
into your veins
and bleed into you
stream of red.
little tendrils
of smoke
fly through
you,
inside you.
tendrils of
black wrap
themselves
onto you.
YOU ARE READING
nights
Poetryit was in the darkest hours of the day that i felt most comfortable in. a collection of words: [ © victoria g. two thousand and fourteen ] |cover created by -therapy|
