there was something dirty in the water.
the water was tainted
but we were dehydrated.
our lips were cracked,
pulled from
the salt hidden in his words.
the idea of
the water being dirty
was superficial to him,
like the words they said every night.
"if you said it
you meant it
even if it was out of anger,"
he said.
he said
it was true.
he said that
he didn't mean it.
he said he didn't mean to lace
everything he had
with glass and sand,
littering a celestial body with
scratches and cuts,
even more than there already were.
there was something in the water,
i saw it,
i saw it,
but he didn't,
because his attention was always,
always on the glass
that made up his body.
don't you know, love?
glass mirrors anything.
glass could even mirror water.
there was something dirty in the water.
YOU ARE READING
another empty bottle
Puisithis is a compilation of vent poetry. I will not be including trigger warnings, an exception made for the first piece. read at your own risk. wow reading over this is embarrassing am i really that unstable
