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«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
❛ we at least try to put love and its synonyms
on the torn pages of our
biography
but why does every trial hurt like
a meteoroid?
we instead stain the pages with blood and tears
all in the whirpool of scarlet and dullness.
why do everything we hold and everything we step on are
malefic explosions of bruises when we just want a single touch of the sky?
why is perfection on every single biography
when it is under the pages, under the cover and above our reach?
i don't aim for such perfection neither do i for these bruises on my skin. ❜
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
YOU ARE READING
exploding galaxies // -silvermist
Poesía°*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ poetry | prose ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ -lowercase intended
