February 4th, 2021
In the state of being so aware of my feelings, it turns me into someone who is willing to look past them. My rib cage melts into hands of bone, and they take fistfuls of my stomach. They twist and churn, and eventually tie it into a knot formation I've never seen before. One that would take more effort to undo than to do it. It could be considered a punishment for being the way that I am, or it could be considered a warning. I don't know who has the right to decide who the warning is directed at. If it's you, run. If it's me, brace for impact. If there were butterflies living in my stomach, they would have all died by now. Just because I am hollow, does not mean you can make a home out of me. I cannot offer you anything with this knotted stomach, so pretend you didn't love me and look the other way. I can't love you.
R.K.
YOU ARE READING
Holeheart
PoesiaI am the forgiver. I am the destroyer. I'm not at fault, but I deserve to be. Poetry and Prose Volume V 2021 DISCONTINUED
