"it's okay,"
i comfort you,
you cry into my cuts,
"at least you made
my eye and my
new black high heels match up."
the salt, it stings.
i'm on my back.
your face slips into blur.
but, i know
your eyes are knives,
blunted in liquor.
and when you're gone
and i'm alone
and everything's too real;
i'll dig my nails
in my sides to
feel how you made me feel.
YOU ARE READING
Alphabet Salad
Poetrymy system is clogged with metaphor and i need to get it out A WATTPAD FEATURED STORY (!) nb: if lack of capitalisation and 'artistic' punctuation don't tickle your pickle, apologies but this book is not for you [working title] probable swearing... y...
