i'll never be a poet

untitled (no, really)

(tw: self-harm)

i've got scrolls tucked under the slits of my skin.

alphabet soup sludging through my veins, carting lines along to the big, big curry reservoir held in the glass dome.

a vortex of whispers slithering down the lattice, funnelling black and red type- tick-tick-tick-tick as they litter themselves on one another throughout my whole body.

peel back my tongue and behold its vantablack stain, the result of eons upon eons of ink tattooed on soft petal pink wax.

here lies the waste of my aged youth. i pluck fistfuls of ash from the rotten air and smear it on my teeth and swallow.

- when i close my eyes, i don't see stars, i feel the ocean and do not spit out the mouthwash