Your touch melts on my,
cold skin.
Your touch covers every inch,
of my dead body.
My dead body? I do say.
As a dead person, I cannot speak.
As a dead person, I cannot say yes.
As a dead person, I cannot move.
You laid hands on a body that didn't have a choice but,
to accept it.
YOU ARE READING
I wish that I didn't write these poems.
PoetryVarious collective of unwanted poems I have written; for people who are fond of the subjects of heartache and who are disorientated through the navigation of this world. Let me share this with you. My emotions are inconsistent and messy, please in...
