hear me, my child. I'm going to sing a lullaby to these bones.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poesia[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
prelude
hear me, my child. I'm going to sing a lullaby to these bones.
