drip.
drip.
drip.
there's been blood on my sheets for about eight years.
i've been living a wild lie and it has to end sometime.
crack.
crack.
crack.
it's christmas in every whore house i have visited because my body does not belong to me anymore.
neither does my soul or eyes or lips. i'm not really me. (or whoever you think i am)
drip.
drip.
drip.
i don't know what to write anymore because my mind is fogging up slowly and . . .
while i keep dripping all over the couch, that is a really good show on tv.
YOU ARE READING
wordlings
Poetryi like words. so i write them. now you have to read them. cover by -daisukii
