They shame me, these words.
They shame their author.
They remind like a mass of fetus in a jar,
Floating dead white in formaldehyde;
Miscarried, mistakes, dead
These words.
I'm afraid that this is it for now,
Or if you'd like me to use my most hopeful tone,
I guess that this is the start of a famine,
The onslaught of an ink drought;
The mine canary has sung and died.
Famines don't last forever, I know,
Though sometimes wombs lie barren till death ...
Everything I create these days is stillborn.
YOU ARE READING
Post - it
Truyện NgắnRevelations, poems, short stories and three a.m monologues, all as tiny as a post-it
