I bit into your halogenic skin
deeper than any mouth
that came before, or after.
I struck bone and went deeper then desire,
deeper then any name we have for sin,
you told me,
with a voice full of imploding stars,
"blood is the precursor to death,
but blood dries, baby"
my hands began to sew together
the denouement,
my fingers tripping over every voice
that said they loved
the evocative beating of my heart.
YOU ARE READING
Self Growth
PoetryWhen it comes to my emotions, a pen and paper is all I've ever known. Dedicated to everyone who wonders, if I'm writing about them. I am. "Self Growth" is a book of original works from inside my journal's lightest and darkest pages. Many have no m...
