tw: sh
orange and brown:
the words he says are all too familiar.
they sound just like his used to.
his desire for a red mark upon his cheek from a carefully placed fist,
sounds all too similar to his desire to watch pretty red lines appear in his flesh.
he's watching him fall down the same rabbit hole he did,
and he's terrified.
he knows what he'll become.
after all, brown is just an alteration of orange.
they might be the same.
YOU ARE READING
my poetry isn't real ☆
Poetry"i'm a poet in the sense that i write poetry. god awful poetry that doesn't rhyme or make sense" a collection of poems, tackling all sorts of topics, from all kinds of inspirations, from a writer who's sure his work is nothing more than pretty words.
