i can talk for years and never run this well dry.
i am a fountain; marble on an italian hillside.
i feel the cracking of my dry, faded lips
but never cease to slip sentiment
into everything i do. it's the only practice
that compels me to wake;
to burn sage around last night's ache.
i am a precious corpse
that these vultures circle.
but i bleed through the hurt.
i am a fountain and i will flood
this yellow-cracked desert.
YOU ARE READING
Lemon
Poetrythis is the story of a girl who's not so young anymore, but hasn't quite gotten used to being older. it's a story of looking at everyone else and looking at yourself and wondering "why can't i be happy?" it's a story about finding meaning in unexpec...
