i visit her everyday. She's my only solice. My painkiller from all these wounds that I carry in my soul.
the grave is a garden the angry twisted trees now hush at me like she's singing to me again with that voice as light and fragile as a feather, telling me to let go but even though we both know i can't.
snakes slither around my feet as i dig, apples for eyes bay leaves scratching me luck is with me now, she's coming home with me.
her soul is supposed to sleep in the sunflowers, not here not here where they don't appreciate her like I did, love her like i did.
...
the swamp water is making it's way through my nose and mouth and body and i am shinning from the inside out my arms feel sore my legs worse the rope sting the rocks bite we will sink to the bottom and all those who have hurt us can mourn a gravel slate with stupid fucking lies scrawled into them fuck they're peace im not losing mine i can taste it as i lose the life i never wanted.
everyday i can only hope they'll feel all the shame they cut into us.
YOU ARE READING
JUST A DOLL, ISN'T SHE?
PoetryThis is the death of the nice girl, the disillusionment that we ever needed to be one. They expected us to crawl to them, with palms up and legs open with perfect pretty painted faces and oh so sweet smiles, what a show to behold, what a horror to...
