dear oliver,
it hurt looking. looking at you hurts.
a tiny splash of blood trickled down
onto your palm as you closed your
eyes and slept, oblivious to the
bleeding. the teacher droned on,
her voice blurring in with the
faded wallpaper.
{she didn’t notice how your
eyes were closed, to hide
the b l o o d s h o t look of them}
what are you doing to yourself,
oliver? you’re only suffocating
your lungs at the age of seventeen
and you haven’t even learned
how to drive.
quinn
YOU ARE READING
zero
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...
