Ice seeps into the depths of my bones; I rub my arms through my thin hoodie. Santos told me to bring a jacket; should've listened.
Where I stand, I shake. Maybe it's fear, maybe it's the cold. I'm not sure which. I know the gun in the back of my jeans feels cold against my skin. The drugs feel heavy in my pocket.
Boots scuffle, and my first buyer now stands in front of me.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Book 2
Poetryjust a bunch of poetry, started january of 2020. we'll see how far it takes us. I basically just post random ass poems I create, not in any promised order. it just happens. this is book two - I stopped book one after one hundred poems. I think I'll...
