dear oliver,
i wonder what will be left of a girl
who let the people around her drive her,
give her the keys, start the engine, and
send her off the road?
i wonder what will be left of a boy
who let the people open up the
bottle, curl his fingers around it,
and lift it to his lips, and let him
drink down death?
i wonder what will be left of a
girl who let the people sharpen
the blade and slide the mirror
over to her eyes, so she watches
her pain as she slides it deeper
into hell?
i wonder what will be left of me.
quinn
YOU ARE READING
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PoetryQuinn scribbles tainted emotions across thin layers of white paper. But to who? To someone who blinks once, sees her, and blinks again-just to make her disappear. To someone who sees her as a symbol of the ocean. To someone who thinks the ocean is...
