Still he sings to me like he does in concerts write me words and rythmes who made me forget about the me he couldn't see and his eyes told me not to feel pain like a recovery, all I did was give him late night cries and early forms of goodbyes, touched him coldly when he was on fire.
You don't offer broken vases to hold flowers.
And I wasn't nearly broken I was shattered in tiny pieces scarred just enough to not stick anymore with anyone. But oh how much he liked laying by my bits on the floor petals covering my sharp silhouette not minding the bleed on his magnificent chest lips close to my ear telling me 'I love you' as I cut through his flesh. Apologizing for not being able to stop the pain, the red spilling in the name of adoration 'im sorry' i casped wanting to brake free from him he only did tell me 'its okay' whilst crying tears with me.
Loving me is a liability.
YOU ARE READING
Bad Birds ▪︎ Prose (1)
Poetry𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴.
