On the days I feel like I am dying, I do not run to you for comfort. There is a small comfort in being sad itself, a warm suffocating nostalgia. I stitch myself up with blackberry brambles and honeysuckle vines. Rinse my mouth out with a fake prayer. I will shake while listening to songs that feel like last autumn. Why do I feel so incomplete in the spaces your hands aren't on and why do empty rooms feel like forgotten memories. The heavy exhale reminds me of the age you lost your conscience. The future used to not seem to daunting at least for a few hours. It now has a grip on heart though, squeezing when I get hopeful.
-FlutterflyK
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3:37am
PoesíaOriginal poems and truths for the broken and lonely. Mostly inspired from books.
