we are glass people.
vases with wilted petals
and stained flowers.
when we touch, we shatter,
we may reunite,
but shards of false love weren't there
before.
maybe
with our tears,
we can water ourselves a garden
outside,
and nurture each other
without confinement we have in our minds.
YOU ARE READING
enigmatic
Poetryen·ig·mat·ic /ˌenəɡˈmadik/ adjective difficult to interpret or understand; mysterious. Just a collection of my shitty writing I like to call poetry. How unfortunate. (I am also rather edgy and depressed here so tw for some people but I promise I'm a...
