blood like ink drips from a silver pen
(permanent scars and painful showers, hiding in shame)
bruises blossom upon limbs like a flowering tree
(unwanted questions and broken bones, it's all the same)
how do you see things?
YOU ARE READING
dark poems
Şiirthis seems like poetry and prose sometimes it's more than you'd suppose see, what my mind creates, goes but what that is, nobody knows
