III.
i tap the glass and examine the fish in the tank.
my head begins to pound and i am left with a sharp pain between my eyes.
i shake my snowglobe.
i feel the ground tremor as i brush some debris from the ceiling above off my shoulder.
we are nothing but fish in a bowl &
flakes of fake snow in a child's toy.
B
YOU ARE READING
fifteen (XV)
Poetryi prick my finger on a rose in my garden. my blood is not red. i take the wind caressing my face as a silent apology. cover art made by doradorapuff on tumblr. [2015] thank you to everyone who shared with me these short poems as they were published...
