dear wren,
i felt like writing poetry today. it sucks. i hope you never find it.
my eyes seem blind,
my mouth can't breathe,
my touch is cracked,
the scent of cancer
has always been one that i can't stand.
but then i look to you,
and i am blind no more,
air is almost choking my lungs,
i can feel everything,
the air the blankets your hair.
and suddenly all i can smell is
pungent
moth balls
and
cigarettes,
and it's all i need.
-grace.
YOU ARE READING
leather jackets.
Teen Fiction| you were standing all alone in that leather jacket of yours that smells like cigarettes and moth balls. you still wear it, even though it's tattered and old. i think it looks lovely on you. |
