My home is troubled waters, intent on harm.
Humoured by other torrential bodies,
burning bridges just to stay warm.
A home built inside a ribcage when life lacked.
Full of leaks and shadows that taunt my plight.
A home where the electricity is perfectly intact,
but I never bother to turn on the light.
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery
ПоэзияMy 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...
