what's under the bed? "monsters," a child will say. the child will also shove everything beneath to give the parent a false sense of cleanliness. just so, You hide Your monsters. You shove Your secrets into the depths, "the dirt is what is impure," You say, "not I. surely, not Me." but who, Highness, made such filth? the mess does not lie, such like You do when You want it to hide. You are lazy, no one can clean Your ever-growing mess but You.
YOU ARE READING
eleven ten
Poetrya series of missed wishes, missed time, those missed. cover photo by me
