my mother was never there for me,
but she was always there, creeping silently.
she was like a moth, flying down the chimney.
hollowing out every last bone that is inside of me.
YOU ARE READING
Writings
PoetryAnything and everything. Most of it is bad. I wrote most of it when I was like 12 and being abused or recovering from it lol
moth (micro/unfinished)
my mother was never there for me,
but she was always there, creeping silently.
she was like a moth, flying down the chimney.
hollowing out every last bone that is inside of me.
