i imagined
i was covering up the parts of me
i so desperately wanted to hide;
i closed my eyes
burrowing myself into the ground,
trying to let go of a truth
that had became too difficult
to
simply
lay
aside.
for forever,
i have tried to forget you:
the one with the gun in this bulletproof love
who looked like the burnt honey
and whose nails clawed their way into me
like the needle in a record player
you turned me into something beautiful
but i became so easy to break.
YOU ARE READING
horribly beautiful ✔️
Poetrypeople write about things that do not happen. they will romanticize this world in hopes of filling themselves up. they write like their words are food. but i have always written to empty myself completely. i will romanticize feeling nothing. jun...
