i taste something bitter, fermented values on the tips of our tongues, intoxicating us so that we won't fight.
but, darling, some of us are hungover,
the empty lies making our heads pound, knocking on the doors of memories forgotten.
oh, but don't worry, we'll keep the headache.
we'll open our minds and our mouths to let out the sound that echoes within.
we'll refuse to let them in.
i promise.
YOU ARE READING
epeolatry
Poesíathe worship of words a book filled with poems written with vigorous effort.
