Wait for the elegance to settle--
frost on the grass, fill the vacant spaces in my chest.
I say too much--
I open my mouth, and the ice travels
from my tongue, to my stomach.
Regret is a tiny, itchy wound.
No time for scabbing, the blood crystallizes
the notion that I should be someone else,
anyone else but myself.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment