when something is produced damaged.
it is thrown out.
they do not bothering packaging,
shipping never crosses the producers mind, no.
but when our stars
kissed to
turn us into more than a thought.
we made it here,
material, my dear.
we are not damaged
though some of us
may have cracks in our skin or scabs where we dreamt of soft flesh.
and maybe we
cry more than someone else, and the bags under our eyes scream just a little bit louder.
maybe we're sad.
but we are not damaged, the angels simply must label us,
"FRAGILE. HANDLE WITH CARE."
k.h.
a/n: feedback is appreciated!!! i wrote this in five minutes
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oneirataxia/poetry by k.h.
Poetryoneirataxia; (n.): the inability to distinguish fantasy from reality. NEW BOOK: THE SHADE OF FLOWERS/POETRY BY K.H., OUT NOW!
