She loved numbers,
counted every single day,
every second she loved,
every second she prayed.
and as she grew up,
she was still counting then,
fingers twisting through her dark hair,
watching strangers pass by,
trying to keep her torn soul inside her body,
her heart screaming
when?
YOU ARE READING
Oleander-COMPLETED
PoetryALL RIGHTS RESERVED Her words were like oleander flowers, so delicate, like a gossamer spider string, but poisonous, like her scarred, despondent heart. *in other words, my crap poetry that is still really important to me*
