trigger warning: gore
vintage floral designs and ripped flesh torn open until blood flows out like spring in full bloom, hands stored in your pocket to keep them from interfering, and sugar lips that leave their crystals inside your epidermis(powdered to look like someone left their pollen on your face). blast into the edges of the cosmos with and empty chest that gets filled up by new composers and b flats fifty seven octaves lower than a middle c, sing in vocal scales amorously while doing handsprings to let the comets pass(they always like a good show). meet the sun again and tell her how much you want to fall into her dying core so you can fuse with her, sun hats and all, letting your arms twist at your sides while you try to get to her(you never do).
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so I found another story idea let's pray that I make something decent out of it
YOU ARE READING
paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
