She gave him everything
Every piece and fragments of her soul,
Thoughts, joy, and bliss that portrayed her very self.
But woe,
She found herself with nothing but dust and a gaping hole
Of where her heart used to be.
YOU ARE READING
letters to myself
PoetryThese aren't poems, these aren't meant to be artistic in any way. They are a bunch of scrappy compilations of words that inadvertently bursted into my head, and they were starting to overwhelm me, so I wrote most of them down.
