i am not a concept.
i am an enigma.
it feels as if the very veins
within me are unravelling
words like flowers
bloom and die in my throat
i am not a wasted breath
or the whisp of smoke
from a blown out candle.
i am the pain in your eyes
when you look at the sun.
the deafening crackle
of a forest fire.
i am the chill of death,
and the boom of a first heartbeat.
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YOU ARE READING
•metamorphism of me• [finished]
Poesíajust a collection of shitty writings from ya girl