writing doesn't seem to help anymore.
the ink to the paper would flow like the blood in my veins,
but nowadays i'm lucky to get a mere singular heartbeat. i had crossed so many t's and dotted so many i's within promises that would only end up being broken that my words are starting to look more like abstract art.
YOU ARE READING
remains of a harpoon.
Poesíathis is just a jumble of stories and my emotions that will never be unfinished. no trigger warnings. im sorry.
