doll behind glass
... and even though I
do not stagger
at the mere thought
of interaction,
of exchange of words,
and opinions of the weather
anymore,
I am concerned,
fearful that my heart
no longer skips a beat
from all the violence.
Maybe because I learned
that honeyed words
were sour to the taste.
I've grown desensitized
of scars hidden beneath
sleeves of lace.
And the doll's dull, doe eyes
will never glimmer
beyond the glass.
Inevitably, the vitrine will break.
~ weuneigh
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My Blood is My Ink | Poetry Book
PoesíaA collection of all my woes and ruminations in poetry form
