dear oliver,
her name was rose. rose has
sticks covering her bones,
stones stuck in her crown,
gold at her feet, face sunk,
crumbling, screaming worst
things in life. she told me that
it wasn't the pills that snapped
the scissor on her line; it was the
words that were thrown at her,
taped on her back, shouted out,
tattooed deep into her valley.
she makes me feel like an
idiot for thinking i have had it
rough. goddammit, she’s suffering
because she can’t hear the words
people scream at her in the halls
since bullets ricochet into her skull,
shoot her down, and all that the
people will ever do is watch her fall and
the wind take her shards by the dumpster
and blows them in.
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...
