Maybe I'm obsessed.
With my hair smelling like salon shampoo,
Or running a vanilla scented soap bar across my deficient chest.
With over-wiping mirrors with dusty rags and old cleaners.
Dusting off the shelves.
Arranging yet another poetry book in to my endless collection.
Lighting a candle to cover the smell of of deathly fantasy.
With listening to the same song on repeat,
Dancing in cotton underwear,
Losing my ability to breathe.
With making hats for lovers,
Or making blankets for unsatisfied fathers,
The silly words come flying out at midnight.
With hoping love wins all,
But it never ever does.
YOU ARE READING
Heresy of the Unprepossesing
PoetryI write stuff, and this is a good place go store it!
