Sin.
This cruel creature of mine, that is restricted by ribs,
Longs to be desired by you.
For your name to be etched upon it.
It wishes nothing more than to be forever held by your existence.
Yet these thoughts of mine,
Keep me from falling for you entirely.
It reminds me every day of your shameful past.
Of your ability to make a girl feel holy, then drive her to sin.
YOU ARE READING
We Called it Love.
PoetryA collection of tales written by a depressed poet. Inspired by the boy who promised he'd never break her. These are the faults in my heart.
