Millions [Poetry]

new moon

new moon

june16twenty18

it's late, and the coldest breeze pays no mind to the breathless body at hand. sometimes eats and doesn't really sleep and leaks out his eyes like he's broken.

for it's a plague. no, he'd be dead by now if it were - it is its own entity entirely, and it has no business leaving anytime soon. not unless, a sunny day came upon him and he finally cascaded into fragments of dead roses.

a silver suicide would leave everyone high and dry, but he's sure it won't be for long. (he'd never do it anyway, because for some reason, he's golden.) still, he tongues the taste of self hate into the back of his throat as it chokes him. sweet but bitter.

stay for a while because what else will he do? he'll push you away, infect you blue. because it's a curse that won't bite, but cries late at night, and I don't think his heart can put up any more fight.

for it is dead, as he feels.