My mouth blooms like a cut. –Anne Sexton
her insatiable death wish
sweat and tears
hanging gardens border on the brow,
a victim of her own thorns
the hand-written letters
left to wither, sent
but never answered.
she waits for succulent lips
painted black
to help her feel better.
he never loved her after all.
———–
Insecurities. We all have them. Don’t we? We sit in the ditch, abandoned. Crashed, broken and lifeless, fantasizing movement beyond. Petals draped, glossed over with death. All that feels good is frozen breath, blossomed. Cut open. To blue.
Sensational! š
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Wow. Good one
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š±š
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