i liked the way he washed his hands.
lathering on
the soap
so that
he really is
nice and clean.
my ocd
appreciates it
and loves
to touch
clean, soft hands.
deliberate,
like he's
trying
to wash off
the blood
caked on from
his young
mistakes.
"oh, how i
relate," says
the pain in
my back from
twisting
myself over
2am sinks.
"he must be
just like me.
i must love
him. i must
adore him.
i don't
deserve him."
as if every
breath mint
was a saint
in the making.
YOU ARE READING
Lemon
Poetrythis is the story of a girl who's not so young anymore, but hasn't quite gotten used to being older. it's a story of looking at everyone else and looking at yourself and wondering "why can't i be happy?" it's a story about finding meaning in unexpec...
