dear oliver,
your mom wanted
to throw away the letter,
and not even open it.
she could tell it wasn’t
going to have a tiny speck
of honesty in it. not one drop
of sweet truth.
no. just the raw, clenching
taste of hatred and vanity.
the bitter remorse that follows
after knowing you caused
the person to pull the trigger.
the wild sorrows of a man
with an addiction towards
the devil’s flame.
the mailman even dropped
it into the box with disgust.
everyone knew him as
the asshole he truly is.
you don’t beat, claw, tear
the clothes of your wife
in front of your one year-old
kid as the bottles decorate the
floor. you just don’t.
quinn
YOU ARE READING
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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...
