October 21, 2015 (Continued)
THE POETRY IN MY NOTES BURNS HOLES IN MY HAND
I GRASP MY SCALP AND SIGH ABOUT MOLEHILLS
THROW ME DOWN THE STAIRS, BRIAN SELLA CAN TALK ABOUT IT TOO
I DON'T MESSAGE BACK BECAUSE I SIT IN THE BACKGROUND, BY THE OUTLETS AND AIR VENTS THAT RATTLE MY BONES
HOUDINI AND CROQUET ARE GREAT, MAN. ESPECIALLY FROM A BLOODY BABE LIKE YOU
STOP PLAYING WITH YOUR COMPASS!
YOU ARE READING
Circles
PoetryTales of friendships gone stale and words from a teenager with borderline personality disorder.
