Put an end point to my word,
and the action shall proceed
on how I'll slit my throat
and drink some chamomile,
some lavender planted in my open lungs
no more vines that will grip me too tight.
Put an endpoint to my being,
and shall, I will die.
YOU ARE READING
Unsaid
PoetryOnly the stars can witness how my sanity collapse, only the oceans running waves across my flesh can watch how slowly, in certainty, how I fall apart.
