it was her.
the girl you always told me "not to worry about" is laying in a bed next to you while i'm laying alone in a bed of thorns.
blood is slowly trickling out of me. the vines around me are piercing through my milky white skin.
she's cuddled up next to your warm body, she found. happy and at home.
that used to be me.
now all i feel is the pain of the thorny roses you threw to the ground.
YOU ARE READING
permanently unfinished.
Poetrywe write our feelings on paper because we have no one to turn to when our vision is blurred by tears and our chests are crushed with sadness.
