October child,
all sea and solitude.
Hollow chest cavity stuffed with
salt and sadness and subterfuge.
Depths that want to drown my name,
to swallow and forget.
It floats with the tide,
but I don't recognise the ocean
for her waves anymore.
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...
