Heaven, let me please see what it's like
to be a brushstroke away from perfectly fine
before her dazzling hazel eyes – freshly picked from the filigree –
ever see
how tightly I'm stretched
across this paper thin canvas, so close from fraying;
it's all a reminder
of iron-tinged bubble bath bubbles bouncing around
the porcelain tub, blood dancing down the walls
and my legs and the drain,
whiskeys' melting ice on the vanity,
the mirror looking back at what I've become,
a patient sent home
with tiger stripe tattoos.
YOU ARE READING
Two Frogs*
PoetryA story about three frogs, if frogs were ideations concerning the manifestation of some kind, some sort of unpleasant feeling I feel...
