the neon is pale
and monochrome, taunting
me. my mother is my mother's
shadow in a nightmare
that hasn't yet
turned sour.
Wednesday tea:
i love her
in a false reality,
i'm not sure she
even has a name.
but for a witch
with books beneath
her skin, i no longer
feel that magic
exists here.
fire dances on the tips of my scarred hands:
what would it be like to disappear?
.
[a/n: this is from a novel i wrote during the past year of inactivity on here, get hype]
YOU ARE READING
soft light
Poezjai just want to feel okay again. poems written circa 2017-2020. what a wacky time to exist. if a lot of these seem unhinged it's probably because most of them were written while i was in a very abusive relationship. tw for occasional themes of addict...
