I gaze upon my empty hands,
tracing the lines of my palms,
the way you used to trace them.
And now, you're tracing
someone else's palms.
YOU ARE READING
Dark and Beautiful
PoetrySometimes my thoughts and hand bleed so much poetry I can barely stop them from leaking onto the paper. But sometimes, too, my heart bleeds too much blood that I couldn't write poetry anymore.
