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Every thought of that autumn fills me with an illness so consuming and so anguishing that I am, for a time, fully convinced that I may, at once, curl over and sink deep into the earth to tremble beneath a bed of flattened petals. My entire arm shakes, the disgust of my own sorrow suffocates the confines of my throat. Every grain of sand connected to those hours are tainted, now, with a plague that catches itself whenever I pull the glass down from its shelf to inspect its beautiful damage.
I am sick, so that I may feel. But to feel any senses is just as sure as a lie.
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(July 7th, 2024.)
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection.
PoetryEvery poem that I have ever written in my designated poetry journal since the day I was eleven years old. Read at your own risk. 😎
