she was in love
but in the end she'd never say
she could ever hate him
he kept her from believing
that she was nothing
reminded her always
of her worth
he cared little
and it was clear
to him
that she always would belong
marking with his hands
a pattern on her skin
while lighting the cigarette that burns
between his loosened lips
a confession of love slips
YOU ARE READING
The Witching Hour
Poetrypoetry about the wicked and the witchy || featured by WP Poetry on Oddities Unknown || #183 in poem (11/3/18)
