The pot of coffee remained on, you always left it on.
My clothes, scattered and the dishes undone.
You always despised the mess. Which is probably why you left: You hated the mess.
I am a mess.
YOU ARE READING
Metanoia
Poetry"YOU LEFT BRUISES I CANNOT ERASE WITH FOUNDATION THIS TIME" These are just really shitty old poems tbh But i hope you guys are well c: © [Ranked #467 || poetry] [[Completed]]
