His fleeting saige irises cut deeper then his collection of perfectly sharpened knives.
His rich lips suffocate more then fingers digging into a throat.
His warmth burns worse then the feeling of cold metal on skin.
His love is heavier then the steel wrapped around my toes;
A burden thicker then hatred,
He haunts me day and night,
For I gave him everything;
And still felt like nothing at all.
YOU ARE READING
The Sickness
PoetryWe are full of rot. A slow rot that eats away at every single one of us like ants in soft, damp wood. Let the infestation thrive within. We are sick.
