Your words speak beauty to me. Lies so surgical, it must be a miracle. You create words, cut so exquisitely that they form strings of garnet on my flesh. You make me pure, like the snow, like my skin, like the basking moon, a metaphor of grandeur. Your sentences are of metal, cool until touched, quickly warmed, and so sharp. When they peel away my layers, I tell myself I am alive. Why else would my innards squirm so? Why else would my heart beat so? Why else would my blood run so? And the relieved breath that escapes my lips as my eyes fall upon the proof of my existence shall also be my last.
YOU ARE READING
The Mourning Times
AléatoireThis is a collection of short stories, poetry, and sayings that are particularly meaningless unless you read them. So please do
