i was the creaking wood
in that old, abandoned house
you were the shattered window
so broken, so afraid of more holes
being punctured into your delicate skin
and i, the creaking wood,
cried alone at night
listening to the noises i made
although no one was there.
no one was ever there.
YOU ARE READING
quarter to dawn {poetry}
Poesíaa collection of poems. you ask me why i like art and i tell you that the water colours bleed prettier than my wrists
