golden stones held in infant draconic gaze.
stitches by a silent hand i find on my clothes.
cortisol churning up my stomach as shoulders tingle from stirring up molecules to vibration between shoulders on a late night at a table.
i look away when you look at me. i can't look at beautiful minds.
YOU ARE READING
i'll never be a poet
Poesíaand here's the pretentious proof an ongoing anthology of the poetry of nobodi.
