My cloudburst, my wild sowed oat
breaking your own little heart
ruining every star and every stone
by yourself, all alone
those red-rimmed fingers
plucking dark summer fruits
promising tomorrow will be sweeter.
My darling,
there is no love like letting go
you can rest now.
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery
PoetryMy suicide had been two years in the making when I decided not to follow through at the last minute. Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. This coll...
