With my arms woven around him
He called me poetic.
His fingers caressed
My porcelain skin,
Dusted with freckles
And scars
Like that kind of china
With grey cracks spidering off from
Blue painted designs
It
Was once
Painted in bruises
And another boys fingers
Digging in too deep
and that's not fucking poetic.
YOU ARE READING
We Write for Fear of Silence
Poetry{My soul put into words. Writing is how I put myself back together again. Writing is how I love.} **all poems are mine** HIGHEST RANKING: #30 IN POETRY & #1 IN TEEN POETRY
