Fingertips cold
Skin getting greyer
Each destination
A despised location
Almost unrecognisable
Despite the known map
Struggling to keep awake
Every faction of myself screaming
Begging my conscience to work
Failing to be heard
For the thing is blocking it
Leaving my skin to go grey
And my fingertips cold.
When some people are sad, the wallow in their own despair, drowning in the emptiness their in.
I write poetry.
-molly out xx
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Confessions of a Aromantic
RandomCall this whatever you like. A diary. A journal. An excuse to write something. Follow me on my journey through rare updates about what i've been up too.
