(memo: work on it, the title could do for a little something. Consider this a draft)
98
"Why wasn't I born right, V?"
He looks at me from the ground, and I tower over his little figure, casting the shadow fate had reserved for him with my own two hands, as my parents did before me, in that corridor.
I have no reply.
Why wasn't I born right?I try to be soft. I try to be gentle. I try to be honest.
"V, I don't really have an answer to that.""Do you at least have a solution?" He asks, like the clever little kid he is, holding back tears and a knot in his throat.
"I'm working on it," I say as I mirror his hopelessness.An audience to entertain,
someone to avenge,
and my very own motif.I leave him there, in the dark corridor whose light stopped working too soon.
YOU ARE READING
pissy buckets of shitty poetry
Randomim italian so there might be mistakes this shit contains everything so uhh