1:03a.m.
Under the boiling streams that trickle against the seam of my lips, remains the delicate touch of trembling fingers tracing down the curve of my chin
My nails scrape gently as the soft pads of each finger trace down the hyoid and past my swelling throat, pressing the bones on my collar and trailing back down the valley between my lungs
It is there that the feel of my skin quickly grows numb but I caress each bump and wrinkly raise of poorly healed scars
If I were blind I'd wonder what words have been branded on my skin
If I were deaf I'd wonder if I could still hear the lyrics of a broken song sung by the defects of my heart
.s
YOU ARE READING
it's 5 a.m. now
Poetrya taste of everything that has made life a little more bitter and on rare occasions; a little sweeter | just an informal way to get thoughts out, i guess
