I would hold a vase I made in high school art and wonder why I could never fill it to the top. I never understood what people filled them with anyway.
I would go to both my parents graves and ask them to forgive me even though I never forgave myself.
I would take the time to write out every disgusting and broken part of me and indulge in the fact that I am truthfully human.
I would paint stories on my skin in crayon, the kind that get turned into lessons and read to small children.
I would thank Mother Earth for letting me **** the life out of her until neither of us could bear it.
I would cry once for the children who only know what it's like to breathe underwater.
And I would take a yellow rose, plucking every last petal and name each one of them a different country I would visit; in another life, on another shore.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC
I would hold a vase I made in high school art and wonder why I could never fill it to the top. I never understood what people filled them with anyway.
I would go to both my parents graves and ask them to forgive me even though I never forgave myself.
I would take the time to write out every disgusting and broken part of me and indulge in the fact that I am truthfully human.
I would paint stories on my skin in crayon, the kind that get turned into lessons and read to small children.
I would thank Mother Earth for letting me **** the life out of her until neither of us could bear it.
I would cry once for the children who only know what it's like to breathe underwater.
And I would take a yellow rose, plucking every last petal and name each one of them a different country I would visit; in another life, on another shore.
