Exhaled. My feet brought me to the mirror and I exhaled. I stared at the boy who seemed to have no flesh, just skin and bones. And asked, "This is it?"
Yes, this is it.
I grabbed this pretty sharp steel. "Will you be quick?"
Not only that. I'll be gentle.
My eyes glittered with tears seeing my shirt drenched and stained. It was like an opened faucet flowing with endless water. I laid on the floor, bathed to the warm, crimson liquid glittered with dust, shut my eyes, and waited for my last exhale.
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.
