Another thing I don’t understand:
VEINS.
There are tight tangles of blood,
of gore,
stored up under your skin,
ready to burst,
ready to splurge,
rip, rupture,
pulse against the soft flesh
of your arms until they
EXPLODE
quietly, and stain,
and stain everything, and for some
reason,
the thought of all this sort of comforts
me.
YOU ARE READING
One Side Whispers.
PoetryA book of poetry for lonely nights, the smell of cement, the way your smile looks after it's rained, and the pure paralysis of knowing you.
