a dried flower – a poem
how can you touch me
when I can’t touch myself?
Storyteller
how can you touch me
when I can’t touch myself?
a distinct odor,
a peculiar paint,
a reflection in the mirror
that stares
wipe the blade clean,
wipe it clean
before someone sees
all that die, live
a thousand funerals
before getting comfortable with the growth, the tough love, the discipline, the use of power, I got really uncomfortable. sought ways, like many others, to get the mind off at the moment. though usually not the most desperate types, there were some desperate attempts. one night, actually, mid-night, anxiously texted 10 different people, nothing serious, […]
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