A writers mind is a splash of fertile paint upon a wall.

We shake the brush and sit and watch the living colours fall.

back then,
i needed to get away from you.

searing hands grabbed my wrists,
scorching and melting my skin until it
became indistinguishable from yours

spoons of medicine were denied me,
instead, replaced with acidic venom to
burn a hollow shape of you in my core

now, when i am lost
i desperately intertwine your
familiar fingers with mine.

now, when i am thirsty
i chug poison like water.

now, i need you.

07.08.20