Ivy.
Your limbs are concealed with that of poison ivy.
The moments I attempt to go to you,
And hold your weaknesses within my arms,
An abundance of sores develop upon this scared vessel of mine.
Yet what horrifies me the most is,
The deadly nightshade coursing through your mind,
Releasing daggers from your mouth.
Forbidding me to plant my lips upon yours.
With the evermore fear of death,
Drawn by your hand.
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.
