dear porcupine,
sorry to have been plucking your quills out whenever it grows. i just couldn't let the others see what kind of flesh you have for it to even grow such things. it would be beyond humiliating, and i don't want you to feel that again.
but no matter how many times i pluck them out of your skin they always come back. why? are you really doomed to failure ever since your conception? tears are shed whenever i see you reach for heaven while bound by the shackles of hell. how could someone do this to you? what kind of god has forsaken you?
or maybe it is no god. maybe it's just me, whose hands grasp your fate and destiny. maybe it's because of this very practice of plucking your quills out and stabbing you with it that has germinated seeds of envy within you. its roots have completely enveloped your heart now and i can't do anything about it anymore.
as i watch you lie in wait for death to fetch you, guilt nips away at my soul as revenge for all that i've done to you.
[ why did i ever think that was a good idea? i'm sorry, me. ]
YOU ARE READING
easy to write, hard to send
Thơ ca» a compilation of pieces and poems and anything my teenage brain wrote either for funsies or to cope with everything and remain sane. just guess which is which. thanks in advance! [ lowercase intended. EXTREMELY random, even language switches from...
