LX.
he,
one who is wrought for you,
prescribed for you,
and distinctively intertwined with your fate from the beginning.
A
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fifteen (XV)
Poetryi prick my finger on a rose in my garden. my blood is not red. i take the wind caressing my face as a silent apology. cover art made by doradorapuff on tumblr. [2015] thank you to everyone who shared with me these short poems as they were published...
LX.
LX.
he,
one who is wrought for you,
prescribed for you,
and distinctively intertwined with your fate from the beginning.
A
