You, immortality. A sublime divinity. A blue vein, a heart made of ash. You are forgetful as you ever were. Do you remember, when I was your thorn that held beauty even beyond the rose? How you wore me like the stain that smelt like perfume? You used to always make me want to kill myself. It hurts. Almost as much as when my sanity blew me a kiss, shot itself and withered away. It hurts so much. You forgot which thread belonged to me. Can you stitch me back together with your veins? Or have I already decayed inside you? Maybe one day you would die in me too. |
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Comments
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Blame the cruel Art of Pretension .
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Blame the cruel Art of Pretension .
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Blame the cruel Art of Pretension .
and I like the poem... like I said to you... it makes me realise I suck at writing
Your writings are always great to me, bunny
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Blame the cruel Art of Pretension .
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