It's boiling, bubbling, melting me and my skin and it hurts, it hurts, it burns.
I'm being filled to the brim with lava, spilling inside my cellulose and replacing it with something molten, and there's nothing I can do.
Leave this burning being behind before they split and you too will feel the burn within every inch, more than you already do.
YOU ARE READING
Air Conditioning
PoetryVent poetry It's frowned upon putting your heart on your sleeve with such a weak code like a three number pin. For both of our sakes I hope you aren't the type to spend your time digging your claws in and working to decode someone else's words an...
