July 17th, 2021
It's hard to touch my body lovingly; the crevices aren't shallow, the holes are dug without purpose. Eyes that stained my point of view weren't even in my skull, they were in his. Now his bones lie in the grave next to me, buried alive, killed by boredom. The silent air echoes through my body, swaying me back and forth. There's no where to fall softly because the moment I tip forwards I will push myself back. Why spill unnecessary blood? I don't want to harm the body you claimed to love, that was your job to make me bleed every time. And you were so good at it. Like a slap in the face, you were so good at treating this flesh horribly. It's hard to touch my body lovingly because of you. Your bedroom, my inner child's grave-my bedroom, a stop along your way.
R.K.
YOU ARE READING
Holeheart
PoetryI am the forgiver. I am the destroyer. I'm not at fault, but I deserve to be. Poetry and Prose Volume V 2021 DISCONTINUED
