Someone lives inside
the shattered pieces,
the tangled nerves
of my body, heart, and mind.
Surviving like the quiet girl
in a short story,
who sings in the streets, helplessly
makes it a novel.
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
In a Short Story, Like a Novel
Someone lives inside
the shattered pieces,
the tangled nerves
of my body, heart, and mind.
Surviving like the quiet girl
in a short story,
who sings in the streets, helplessly
makes it a novel.
