every little disdainful look
every whisper i catch
every snicker i hear
every
little
rumor
not intended for my ears
wounds me more
than a gunshot ever could.
this is what will kill me,
eventually.
how does it feel,
having my blood on your hands
because you couldn't resist one
last
lie
to make yourself feel good about
you?
murderer.
YOU ARE READING
as we fall
Poetrypoems of truth and how we feel, even though we never say it. a collection of my original poetry Copyright 2015
