after the smoke
i recover
my skin, burnt and coiled peels itself off
my body gives birth to me
the me, with electric finger tips and built
in wings
-y.s
YOU ARE READING
plastic flowers
Poésielife is never perfect. it's messy and even the most perfect people put on a face. just like plastic flowers, from afar i can look put together but up close i'm everything but. *a collection of poems*
