You.
Oh, you.
You're the thorns to a rose
that prick my delicate fingers on as I stop
to admire your beauty,
the sticky sweet poison in which
you have slipped into my cocktail
that I,
lovingly made for
you.
Oh, you.
With the same hands
you used to hold mine,
stabbed. Me. In. The. Back.
Let the blood pour out of me
and watched as I fell
from your arms
to the floor.
'Best friends', you said to me.
I laugh as I remember, while I die.
'Bullshit'
Are my final words.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts, Never Words. (Poetry Collection)
PoesíaPoems written by just some young adult going through some things.
