dear oliver,
she's a smoke that was leftover from the
burning marks of fire on a house in the
woods. she's the chain reaction, a domino.
one of the victims of a murder scene.
butterflies drip and suck fresh blood
off of her empty soul. no use. “hope
is dead, like me, love,” she said
as she lit up another cigarette.
she told me if humans were to ever
get tattoos on their hearts, she’d have
scrawled on her heart: how am i supposed to
be what they expect me to be? when i
have left my beauty back home.
honestly, i think she is beautiful.
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...
