will my hands ever forget the habit of clawing my own wounds for warmth? i lay my vulnerably human skin on sun-dried poems written to breathe, breathe, breathe in — breathe through january's oppressive cold.
i breathe out a mouthful of asphyxiated flowers
Jan 5, 2022
Jan 5, 2022 at 1:23 AM UTC
will my hands ever forget the habit of clawing my own wounds for warmth? i lay my vulnerably human skin on sun-dried poems written to breathe, breathe, breathe in — breathe through january's oppressive cold.
i breathe out a mouthful of asphyxiated flowers
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