my heart itches
hates wanderlust
and fake poetry
picked at fingers
fight among themselves
bloody and tired
under the table
i don't know if i was born
with a self destruct option
or if it just appeared in
the right moment
and knew i needed
something
fuck, i'm not atlas
i'm not metaphor:
my shoulders
hurt
let me sleep
YOU ARE READING
soft light
Poetryi just want to feel okay again. poems written circa 2017-2020. what a wacky time to exist. if a lot of these seem unhinged it's probably because most of them were written while i was in a very abusive relationship. tw for occasional themes of addict...
