The bugs scrape and chew,
The rats feast and gnaw
My now rotting body lays,
The butterflies start to decay.
Every little action he did I romanticized meant nothing.
The now ugly, zombified moths yearn for escape out from my hollow insides to the tunnel out of my open mouth.
Escape from this being who has ruined me, who has killed what once was.
I am nothing. I was always nothing. The only thing I'm for is to lay here, dead.
To rot in pity and dismay about how he couldn't love me the way I loved him.
This is the end of my everything.
YOU ARE READING
Little writings
Poesíalittle things I write that aren't apart of a big story that gets a whole book. kinda like short stories and poems also helps me with writers block and getting my emotions out. Might also add music to the parts to set the mood ♡ #poems ranked 287 ou...
